Prophetic dreams,
Now a distant whisper.
Body fades to dust.
Mind, a dull aftertaste.
Soul lingers for a moment,
Then dies
Like a candle’s flame,
Or like hope.

All is gone,
So what remains?
The void,
The overflowing cup
Of nothingness.
Yet nothingness is a thing.
So if even no thing is some thing,
Then everything is nothing.

Nothing even really dies,
Nothing ever really begins.
Birth and death and mere transitions
Like water into ice.
So what is it to be?
Nothing. And everything.
All things are part
Of one, ever-turning wheel.