At twilight's soft embrace, an old man stands,
Eyeing the horizon, the close of day.
He ponders life's last grains of shifting sands,
And wonders if there's more beyond the fray.
Do shadows veil a realm, unknown, unseen?
Do endings birth beginnings, shining bright?
Or is the final sleep a curtain, screen,
That parts to reveal everlasting night?
But, his body weary, his spirit worn and thin,
Each sunset could be the last he'll ever know.
He chuckles softly, a raspy sound within,
“An afterlife?” - he'd rather rest below.
If death's the end, he's ready for the jest.
If not, he laughs, “More rest would be the best”.