The End

Tomorrow we all go- there is no hope

We depart playing our parts for those there is no scope

Some return to be fulfilled or replay their imperishable roles

Finding their beatific home or centuries of homes

While some stagger swapping their souls

With unfit and unaccustomed- often tattered robes

It is they who long to be crossed when life is in store

And forever depart from the earthly lore

And I am one like that – an unholy sore

Heal me not, God but rub me hard forgiving I exist.