Ends

What this hardened soul's cry purports?
Hard and weak alike, hard from out and weak within,
Wring my calmness into a tumult of pain, and disorder,
My heart senses troubled time ahead.
Troubled? Or may be a dire end.
An end in itself the end of time in my veins.
It seems as if my breath is culled each moment.
There isn't an absolute end in any way but.
Just here, Just the visible.
I shall live on in the other worlds and 'verses.
The mirrors no more show my true self
For my mind is shattered fully.
Unanswered and unfulfilled, dull and dry,
My eyes seem to decline and dwell in dolors.
Once temperate demeanor disrupted.
No more of my soul's felonies can I bear.
No more of them in my solitude.
The courage. I assume it is nought.
And Strength, over-arched by gruesome fears.
What this flail soul's cry purports?
Nothing. Into nothing, and to the end of nothing.