To finish in an abrupt manner, for all to turn to ash,
A being of compromised structure, waiting for it to fail.
For nothing to be possible, and all to be naught,
When things are truly empty, and nothing truly gone.
With the corrosive depths reaching far, the rot running deep,
Nothing left to grow, nothing more to eat.
The great heaving of land thrown far, while it sinks into the creep,
The eternal prison's reach too far, and nowhere left to sleep.
Will nothing be left among us, with all left to be,
Will there be something to do, or things to be seen?
I know this to be true, and all of it can be,
That the wounds that lay upon those hands do not belong to me.
The will not belong to anyone new now, or yet to come,
It will not suffice to say they were made for anyone.
But to be sure it is known that nothing is left to be, who can know,
For I do not, the things left to them.
With no one to blame, and no evil to fight,
For what reason is there to brace this wretched sight?
When one could just as easily say it has never been,
A claim unable to be proven, what is left to be done.
In that note of slight, without much to be said,
What more can the dragon do but lay it's head.
Upon no stone or water, where none can breathe,
But still within the turbulence, the roughened seas.
The place where things end, it will be left to be seen,
Just how much it was worth, to all and them, and me.