Stitching life in a line

Is man whole
Or a cyborg would complete the maze
in the lego of divine evolution?
For surely he can’t conquer void
or sustain the volcano of ideas and energy
well into the dusk.
The clouds grow pale and dry and die
The gears clog the cog and slow
The laughters fogging the home subsides
The fertile soil of mind and body
hardens into desert rock
Youth is brief, good times disappear
Even their memories fade into an empty notebook
And if the firmament can’t keep up with rain
Or sun with the engine of helium
What is this mortal three piece man
in the affairs of gods?

Are we whole for I think not,
when the last push of Pahom sucked this soul into the Devil, where was Christ and Goggins?
Where was the freeway to redemption when Brutus or Antony or Chester gave up?
Who keeps joining bridges across the ruthless gulf for the altruistic sake of the atomic man?
What is missing in the grand design? Which pit is unplugged, and do all roads lead to it?

What happens suddenly?
When man appears invincible, happiest and riding high.
Why do we collapse? Why do accidents, backstabs, betrayals, burnouts knock us down from nowhere? What buckles our knees when we feel we can continue the dance?

But I get it, you’ll find it too:
Its the will which answers all questions.
The deathless desperation of Guts in Berserk to fight with your life on the collateral.
Will provides endless fuel to burn day and night and day and night.
Will breaks inertia like smashed glass, widens the drooping eyes, gives spring to your legs and resonance to your heartbeat.
It rouses the dead and paints the starless night sky in blinding white.
Its the throwline you must cling to even in bleeding palms.
It is the candle flame you must preserve through tempest and the abyss and take with you to the grave.