Swansong

The triumph of our days comes down

to that we leave behind.

And those who, yet to come, would know us,

do so only by those remnants

 written large upon the sky.

The hollow brass of loud, maintained belief;

that empty vessel whose truth

will not survive the light of reason;

echoes in our empty tomb.

Life is indeed that strolling player

we know from Shakespeare's pen.

The troubadour, aware the lines are false,

who yet will sing the song.

So write your lyrics, set them to your tune;

and make your parting melody your own.