The Emperor's Nude Clothes

Humanity will end,
For all things must and do.

This is not news.

We are not masters of the Earth
Nor even of ourselves.
We are fruit on a branch of the tree of life:
Budded, blown,
Weathered and grown
Ripened, corrupted then thrown.

Do not mourn for the Earth,
We cannot kill it.
Do not mourn for our lot
Or the passing of species.
For the pages keep on turning in the book of life.

Mourn for yourself
If you must mourn at all.
For you were born dying,
As all else is.
And only the end that comes
Will be yours
Alone.

Though there was never a you to begin with,
Nor yet a you that was really apart.
More like
A drop of spirit
Conjoured from cloud,
To be rained through a lifetime.
Weathering a body
And sounding a soul,
Falling fathomless deep
In a mystery of ocean,
Ringing back to infinity,
Completed and whole.