all is just as it is meant to be, 

or, not to be. only in retrospect,

in the silver-backed mirror, will

the "to be or not to be" be known,

even then, who's to say? it looks

to be a bloody mess either way.

it is the luxury of choice, a degree

of simpering, a degree of panic,

both real enough, though factors

of privilege not available to those

who come after to clean the stones. 
all seems possible until it isn't, 
until the one with the pen in hand

makes the final, defining stroke.