FIN

This is the death of a man;
Not the final breath
Of solitary death,
But these last doubts of just who I am.

This is the death of thought:
Not the end of debate,
Or the word devoid state,
But negation of all that I sought.

This is the death of me:
Not the doubts or the guilt
Or the false hopes I built,
But the absence of sympathy.

This is the end of the world:
Not the cold of the frost
Or the spring that we lost,
But the sneer on the lips we see curled.

This is the end of my hopes:
When failure arrives
And no one believes
In the one who for real life still gropes.

Thus the finality of time:
Whatever we've been
And despite what we've done,
We'll all fall to someone's new scheme.