I see myself assume a sense of ruin.
The rumbling gears are grinding to a halt.
The screeching wheels are muted much too soon.
My occupation now is finding fault.
I make no effort to disguise my fate.
The semblance of reality is gone.
My consciousness of it is much too late.
What rock have I to build a church upon?
A saint in heaven is a lonely being.
A sinner on the earth is always proud.
A prophet now has trouble in forseeing;
for freedom wraps our future in a cloud.
As time commemorates eternity,
I make a virtue of uncertainty.
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