What crouches on you, meditating on your doom? 
Is it fate, the hatred of your enemies, is it the demon 
from your memories? 
What crouches on you, staring into the emptiness?
Is it conscience with black wings, is it the voice
that tells you of your failure?
What crouches on you, silent, becalmed?
It is only time, only the universe
only entropy ushering you along
where you were headed from the start.