Seemingly endless, seemingly ending;

Jazz without the swing, if you will.

When my bones finely dust you all from the gut and onward,

Let Thoth judge my life, in death, for its brush stroke precision.

Did I ever ease my chambers? Did I ever spit the granite?

Dust always turns out fine. 

Tear the filament.

Lick the leather.

Let it soak in for a while.

Let it soothe you.

Bite the leash.

Convulse your cage.

It brinks but doesn't break.

It beckons but won't budge.

Indefinitely exists, Inevitably exits. 

Let me judge my life for its bashful merit,

not on mind spilt future tenses.

My eyes are open, now give me something to see.