The sun will rise and set on empty shores,
And rivers run to seas that never fill;
No spirit breathes behind the heavy doors,
The universe is vast and strangely still.
We build our altars out of hope and sand,
And trace a purpose in the random light;
But time will sweep the work of every hand,
Into the long and unremembering night.
There is no "why" within the turning gears,
No final goal to justify the pain;
The silence does not listen to our fears,
Nor does the sun distinguish sun from rain.
But in this nothing, there is room to breathe—
From every phantom "must," we find reprieve.
Which of these four distinct paths do you find most compelling?
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