at the end

the end, was it not to be upon me
with some quiet
a subtle darkness toward a shroud
where did i find these imaginings
captured out where i did my roamings
breathed from old degraded air?
listening gave me some raw purpose
gathered words became my prey
buzzings harks and gutteral
whispers
all told the same and gray soaked
tale
don't wait for glory
metal trumpets
the path to ashes wends
in inches
monuments must be earned
not scooped in sand
subject to all the primal vagaries
it was to be upon me
stealthed in sleep
cloaked and nameless
another stranger smiling
beguiled by mask
it was not to be
the exhaustion of all i know
come in rampaging battalion
in shrieks
in tears and breaking howls
for none of us lie possessed
of name
of worth
the end is the great impoverishment
the final taking
but as with everything that does man
liars write that tale
at the end