but outside. For after, there is nothing
but the dark. From God's-eye perch
we look upon our times in crystal form,
eleven planes laid flat before our view,
and there we do our sums.
Our debits counted red are times of doubt,
measured in mayhap and might have been,
our bodies in the fore, our minds in aft,
wishing for the wake and fearing storms
that have not come, and may not wash at all.
Our thoughts caught up in contrapositive,
the moment lost for lack of heed and care.
The positives are painted prism-hued,
all colors there, awash in all the world's
events where we partook. Those times where thought
and place were one, ajoined to truly see
the joys that were around. Each moment's life
a breath, then passing imperceptibly
and rising up the precious next.
From high above we count the weight and tint
of times below. Our souls in immanence,
we coolly weigh each contribution's heft.
Did this life *live*? And did it add
to cosmos' understanding of itself?
Were moments spent within the world,
or trying to escape?
The count is called for each of us on high,
Our aggregates define the cosmic why.