Endless banquets in warrior halls?
Drinking cold to be washed anew?
Or, like blinking, close our eyes to open them again?
What's next?
Is the heart taken in measure, for a chance to live on in
the sun?
Or pass octant gates, to wander in gardens?
And yet again, should we roar warning to those removed?
What's next?
Do we celebrate in hallowed greens?
Or slip to silence everlasting, carried on memetically?
Eternal adoration of the one who let us fall?
What's next?
I hope for a choice.
To think on all these,
And cast my lot as I will.
But I don't know.
But his mother does.
I hope she's having fun.
And perhaps...
We'll meet again.