I contemplate a thing beyond my reach

and wonder, should I try to make it mine?

To go once more unto that fucking breach,

or, seeing the futility, decline?

Can’t take it with you—

won’t need it when your dead—

not dead yet, though.

Suspended in uncertainty, I wait

for God knows what—for chance?—for time?—for Him?

But time does not suspend.  And as it goes,

I contemplate a thing beyond my reach.