The Funeral Procession Poem by Quel Saige

How long will the Illusion be surkept?
For naught, we all have wept
For naught, and also all the things that be—
To live is to survive Eternity

We've played grand games with God's alabaster dice,
But how many more could have been played with vice—
Not Virtue—as it may well be,
But, for now, for naught, the games suffice

How our Lives spiral on
To some glorious distant Dawn—
To mourn is to mourn for
But to lose is to have One—

We are but a grave mirage
of a Funeral Procession
And as Liszt weeps over the Ivory keys
The Night will come
And cleanse the day
too well
away

That I should even think to hope to want to have
When I haven't any hope to think to want
In the Beginning
In the Beginning
In my Beginning is my End

Time and rose-petals float by, descending
Onto rough and wicked waters
And Past and Future intermingle, kiss, collide
And for a single fleeting moment
The Present is not
And you are here with me