Everything ends eventually—

not as tragedy, but as necessity.

The sun collapses into dusk

with the same indifference

as a god who has outlived his own believers.

What was built crumbles,

not from neglect, but from the inevitability

of change uncoiling in silence.

I see hills behind the clouds,

or is there merely a trick of perception,

a desire to see beyond the veil,

to insist that meaning persists

in the spaces we cannot reach?

Perhaps the silver lining is only

my unwillingness to accept

that some horizons are illusions,

that some hopes are just elegant fictions.