The Truth In The End Poem by John Burns

In corridors of power we toil,
Planting dreams in barren soil.
Yet what are trinkets, rank, and name?
When Death itself plays the final game.

Cease the struggle, hear the tick,
Time cares not for your strategic pick.
It claims the beggar, claims the lord,
Levels all with unseen sword.

'Legacy! ' a hollow cry,
As if mere words could fortify,
The years lost in pursuit,
Of a grand, yet empty, absolute.

Ponder then, what life's about,
Not distant goals wrapped up in doubt.
In sorrow, love, in the absurd,
Find meaning in the spoken word.

For stardust we are, briefly so,
A fleeting act in life's tableau.
Why dwell on what's to come, to be,
When present moments set you free?

No tomb, no vault, no epitaph,
Can shield you from life's darker half.
So take this truth, a bitter pill,
Existence bows to no one's will.