Smoldered Wood at the End of Time

At the end of what I called mine,
I see the shoulders I was standing on;
and I know things I never could
in life because we never should.

The places I once went, the ones I’d haunt,
now nothing more than chilling afterthoughts.
So, here I am, cold outside,
but there’s a fire I can see inside.

At the end of time,
where those who stayed behind
revel nightly waiting to move beyond;
and chaos consumes everyone—
everything; now they can see:
life is at an end, sight gone blind.
But there the fire burns and life begins once again,
at the world’s end.

Time is lost like everything —
the crumbled ashes of our kings,
now coasting in the space of memories.
They slip and fade into cold, forgotten days.
Then, we can see all the things we never should,
and know the words we never spoke,
touch the things we never could —
our bodies nothing more than taunting smoke,
the effervescent embers of smoldered wood.