The Rest

Well, it ends, of course, and it goes on as well.
Depends on what you mean by it. One life
Or the whole mangled, each-other-devouring lot,
Your own life, as you introspect, or the rest.

I haven't been able to quite quiet my own
Restless thinking about this blank wall
Since I was first tangled enough to read
The translucent writing spidering over it.

I was a child then, and because I haven't moved on
I'm a child still, the offspring of all the rest
Of those poor children, little nested dolls
Never growing littler, except in perspective,

Back to whatever vanishing point you wish
You could imagine. I can't. I don't care
For origins much anymore. They're not the same
As endings. They always yield to more,

Whereas endings have each a tiny side door,
Like the kind weird rodents make into trees
Or, more sadly, like that next to the piled-up bones
In Herculaneum near the last shaft of air.