Few are those who soar
to places unknown anymore,
and many are those who walk
with little more than talk.

What does it mean to truly live?
Is it a name that will live?
But after all we will die
and one day, not one will cry.

One day our matter will be that of worms,
this much Hamlet truly forms
an honest concern for what is to come,
and such things are only known by some.

But true reflection does not fear,
for it is not based on a mirror.
Time will pass to ends,
but these ends, He bends.

This life spans further than eyes can see
and finds its rest in Him who is three.
Our hearts are restless until they rest in thee,
and only then do we come to really be.

The complexity of life is deceiving,
yet rarely will it be forgiving.
None will get out of here unscathed,
but greater is that by which we are bathed.