Something is strange about the world finality,

A word as singularly distinctive as it is remote.

As if projecting an inconclusive air of mystery,

Twilight burning in flames striking a final note.

The word raises its head in the oddest of places;

We use the word in passing, as finality of the day.

Something finally ends, but leaves behind traces;

The day isn’t final, but comes back as another day.

All kinds of relationships become something final;

Relatives, friends, lovers make way into the past.

So many disappear from our lives in a wave tidal;

Loyalty, trust, love, many feelings that didn’t last.

We often promise ourselves and say never again,

Fallen in temptation, into traps, something wrong.

Our prayers go unanswered, yet still we say amen;

Life goes on and so does our lilting, melodic song.

And so we speak of finality and its air of the end,

While nothing stays so final as the event of death.

A consequence we can never fully imagine or intend;

We live with its promise until arrives the final breath.

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Copyright © John Herlihy

Sunday 28 February 2021