Untitled

Beloved one,
Wherever you were yesterday,
Tomorrow may be empty of you, too,
And a continuum of mirrors,
Eternally reflecting nothing,
A corridor of time uninterrupted,
Within which we must live and breathe,
Will become the be-all end;
For breathing is unstoppable
By volition on its own,
And closing curtains prematurely
Precludes a late arrival,
A ticket-holder, hot and flustered,
Who races down the aisle and yells,
"I'm here at last! I'm here!"
Don't rush to reach that final bow.