You believe, there’s no denying
Death at least looks very final.
Indeed. Say irreversible.
But everything’s final like that,
Every passing moment, nothing
Ever coming back, while nothing
Is final in the other sense,
Meaning done, all doing finished.
A corpse has transformations yet
To manage, some of them bringing
Some of it back through racks of life.
We feel the loss. We feel the loss
Of everything, the permanent
Impermanence of existence,
But we can’t say, can’t understand
Precisely what it is that’s lost.
Physicists track it to black holes,
But calculate, even from those,
Information may be returned,
And no one has captured a soul,
Taken the measure of a soul,
Found the gaps in life’s fabric
Left by death, much less missing soul.
So, why is it death looks final?
What is it we feel that we’ve lost,
The more so callous life goes on?
One theory holds that life’s the most
Efficient way to entropy.
Loss is efficacy, I guess.