The Final Page

In the grand library of existence,
Where time keeps its meticulous shelves,
There lies a book bound in starlight and silence,
Each page turning itself.
Scribes of destiny work through eternities,
Recording each life as it flows,
But none dare to peek at the final entry,
The last word no one knows.

I've wandered these halls of infinite stories,
Past volumes of laughter and tears,
Through chapters of triumph and tales of glory,
Through tomes of hopes and fears.
The ink flows like rivers of consciousness,
Each letter a universe deep,
Some written in joy, some penned in distress,
Some causes the angels to weep.

They say that the end was written before
The beginning had drawn its first breath,
That somewhere encoded in cosmic lore
Lies the answer to life and to death.
But who would dare read the ultimate page?
Who'd risk knowing how all things cease?
When the universe dims in its terminal stage,
When all motion comes to peace.

The librarians whisper of prophecies,
Of words that could unmake the stars,
Of syllables holding cosmologies,
Of truths that could heal or could scar.
Some claim it's "Forever," others say "Gone,"
A few think it simply reads "Home,"
While mystics insist that the word is "Dawn,"
And sages suggest it's "Unknown."

I've spent countless nights in contemplation,
Watching words dance across time,
Each letter a small constellation,
Each sentence a rhythm sublime.
The book pulses gently with memories,
Of lives that have come and have passed,
Of moments both grand and ordinary,
From first breaths until the last.

Sometimes in dreams, I glimpse fragments,
Of what that last word might contain,
Like catching the tail end of pageants,
Or hearing the end of refrains.
It shimmers like dew in the morning light,
Then vanishes into the mist,
Leaving echoes of infinite insight,
Of things that both are and exist.

Perhaps it's not meant to be spoken,
This word at the end of all things,
Like music that's better unbroken,
Like bells that are sweeter unrung.
Maybe the beauty lies in not knowing,
In questions that have no reply,
In mysteries eternally growing,
In wondering simply "Why?"

Yet still I return to this volume,
To pages that write themselves new,
Each dawn brings fresh chapters of solace,
Each twilight, perspectives anew.
The book knows the hearts of all beings,
From stars to the smallest of souls,
It chronicles all of our seeings,
Records all our parts and our wholes.

In margins, I find annotations,
From readers who came long before,
Their thoughts like small illuminations,
Their questions still begging for more.
Some wrote with the ink of their passion,
Some left only fingerprint stains,
Some added their tears in compassion,
Some blood from their struggles and pains.

The binding creaks songs of creation,
As cosmic dust settles between
The pages of each generation,
Recording what is and has been.
But that final word remains hidden,
Behind veils of space and of time,
Access to its mystery forbidden,
Until the last bell's final chime.

Sometimes when the night is the deepest,
And silence spreads thick like a shroud,
I swear that I hear it speaking,
In whispers both humble and proud.
It sounds like the laugh of a child,
Like waves on a distant shore,
Like wind through the forests wild,
Like peace at the heart of war.

The scholars debate its meaning,
Philosophers ponder its truth,
While prophets claim they're receiving
Revelations in their youth.
But the book keeps its secret closely,
Guard ing that ultimate phrase,
Moving through history mostly
In slow and mysterious ways.

Some say it's written in stardust,
Others in quantum light beams,
A few think it's crafted from trust,
Or woven from everyone's dreams.
Its letters might dance like auroras,
Or pulse like a newborn star's heart,
Perhaps it sounds like grand choruses,
When all voices play their part.

I've traced every line that precedes it,
Studied each chapter with care,
Hoping somehow to perceive it,
This word that's beyond compare.
But each time I think I'm near knowing,
The mystery deepens again,
Like rivers eternally flowing,
Like time's never-ending refrain.

Maybe the word is still writing,
Still forming itself even now,
As each soul adds its lighting,
As each life fulfills its vow.
Perhaps we're all co-authors,
Contributing verse after verse,
Each choice that we make offers
New paths for the universe.

The pages turn endless and golden,
Each life adds its singular mark,
Some stories remain fresh, others olden,
Some brilliant, some deep in the dark.
But all are essential chapters,
All part of this infinite tome,
All caught in the gentle rapture,
Of finding our way home.

And so I keep reading and watching,
As new words appear on the page,
My own story somehow attaching,
To this book of infinite age.
I add my own small contribution,
My hopes and my fears and my love,
Knowing each thought's evolution,
Moves that last word above.

What if the word is still growing?
What if it's not yet complete?
What if the final knowing,
Is something we help to create?
Perhaps every choice that we make now,
Shapes what that word will become,
Each act of love that we take now,
Adds notes to the final sum.

The book lies open before us,
Its pages still turning with time,
Each life adds its voice to the chorus,
Each heart makes the next word rhyme.
And though we may never see clearly,
That word at the end of it all,
Perhaps what matters more dearly,
Is answering now to its call.

So let us write boldly our stories,
Let kindness flow free from our pens,
Let love be the ink of our glories,
As we craft how our chapter ends.
For though that last word stays hidden,
Its echo resounds in each soul,
In choices made, actions unbidden,
In parts that create the whole.

And maybe someday in the fullness,
When time has completed its dance,
We'll find that the word in its stillness,
Was with us at every chance.
Perhaps it was always beside us,
In every breath that we drew,
In every truth that guided us,
In everything old and new.

Until then, the book keeps turning,
Its pages flowing like streams,
While all of creation's learning,
The language of cosmic dreams.
And I'll keep returning to wonder,
At mysteries vast and profound,
Finding peace in the thunder,
Of questions that still resound.

For in the great book of existence,
Where all of our stories entwine,
Perhaps the most beautiful distance,
Is the space between your tale and mine.
And though we may never discover,
That final mysterious word,
We're part of its endless cover,
Our voices waiting to be heard.

So let the last word keep its secret,
Let mystery reign in its place,
While we write our own verses unique yet,
Connected through time and through space.
For in this vast cosmic story,
Each soul adds its light to the whole,
Contributing morning glory,
To life's ever-unfolding scroll.

And when the last page is turning,
When the final word comes to light,
Perhaps we'll find we were learning,
Its meaning throughout our night.
Until then, we keep writing onward,
Adding our words to life's song,
Moving ever forward,
Where all meanings belong.
For in the end, what matters truly,
Is not what that last word might be,
But how we lived fully, duly,
In love's infinity.

So let the Book of Life keep turning,
Its mysteries deep and unknown,
While we keep living and learning,
Making its wisdom our own.
For each of us adds to its pages,
Our stories of love and of strife,
Contributing through the ages,
To the last word of life.