Eschaton

To think of things it rather would ignore,
The mind turns often, spiting my desires.
E'en though my heart does fully it implore,
My head, full stubborn, conjures up past fires.
In troubled sleep and fever I recline,
Rememb'ring what would rather be forgot.
If only my own thoughts I could decline;
But no, there's nothing stronger than a thought.
And yet, while past and present coconspire,
The future is the rock on which to build.
Though under sun and cloud we men perspire,
The sky will open, promise be fulfilled.
This world will pass, all sadness wash away,
When morning breaks upon that final day.