Eleven thirty seven twenty eight.
The time shall haunt my Memory Ultimate.
Soul's packed and ready, almost getting late,
And now another memory to try and accommodate.

But what of this soul that I am so sure
Sits waiting, pushing a button inside?
The button to take it to a higher floor,
While I rot with time and tide.
And what of these floors in Salvation Towers,
And those intermediate Judgement hours?
To ever know if they're real, I must first be brave,
Not waste my time, speculate, contemplate,
(While my patience lay flat after a turn in its grave)
Whether the board will reset after this impending checkmate.

But my beliefs I can surely
At a better time question,
Dig out, dust, and study
In the daylight of reason,
Than in this moment of half-misery,
Half-peace, sunset, self-destruction.

But must this really be the end?
Does my suicidal mind really intend
To finish what it started?
This plan for the brave-hearted
(Or is it cowardly) departure?

Is this Death's hand that I wish to take in my right,
And put to my head while I savour my last sight?
Is it Death that I so impatiently
Wish will become dear to me?
Wait so I will, come when it might.
The peace appears worth it. But will it be, certainly?

To try is useless, or so it should seem,
My life's purpose or its worth to redeem.
So I shall reconcile, while I picture hopelessly
The only miracle that can possibly save me -
Towering over the scope of practicality,
Dwarfed by the zero of probability.
All while struggling in a storm at sea -
The sad and sorry sea of reality.

And one last time on my life I reflect -
The story hardly unfolds but rather unwraps
To reveal a collage - completely imperfect.
Yes, imperfect at worst, ugly at best, perhaps.
To everyone I've ever known and loved,
(Though not love do my actions bespeak)
The sun shall rise over one fool less,
Your midst shall be cleansed of me. Goodbye.
When you hear a shot, a thud, but no shriek,
The time will be eleven thirty seven twenty ni..