It Ends
It must.
How could it not?
The thing, the the
What are we if not death?
To be, to to?
Is to be just a moment?
Hell is a thing.
It must be.
Es muss sein
Says the poet.
But es geht am Ende.
We turn, yes. Over again.
You think and you turn
Over again.
Over again? Maybe, but maybe then no?
Time turns over again.
It repeats itself.
It revolves and does not cease.
Destructive Anachronism 
We are all spirits spinning in eternity. Just let it go, Benji! This is a difficult poem to read, and I don’t believe in hell, personally… Much love.
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