What Ends When It Ends

Like a sweet inflorescence, it is a cluster of opposing feels

Blending both the desirables and the undesirables

It overcasts life in a sheer delusion

That the end is something vital and more palpable.

We curse it for being rueful and stubborn

As if we are the master Prospero and this is our enslaved Caliban

Doomed to obey whatever we want

Any defiance may bring serious havoc.

Yet preaching of Jaques feels true and touching

"All the world's a stage /And all men and women merely players/They have their exits and entrances."

Though the blunder seems real and true

Yet it is the train, not the trees moves ahead 

And the stage remains the same

Dragging and pulling players from and into the eternal space.