Still, do I stand,
As all the days before and behind,
My fingertips brush the roughness,
Pushing down.

How sweat doth pain,
Pain of the flesh seem,
When from ones mind,
It plucks, all worry, all guilt, all fear,
All dray anticipation.

For is it wrong,
That wanton feel?
To be free, free of all,
For naught but a second,
But a second nonetheless.

For every day it is as such,
Not the thought of inevitability,
But the knowing,
Knowing that nothing is certain,
And that is what I fear.

Such anticipation, shaking limbs, a pounding heart,
O, such a craving for that second,
Naught but a second,
A second of nothing but naught.