The bob of our pendulum is a razor sharp disk,
cutting the air with its long swings before
gravity and time curtail its trajectory,
when it cuts our ties with time and
severs the cables that bind us to this life.
Mathematicians and physicists calculate the
motions of pendula, predicting with certainty
the moment at which gravity and mass and friction
conspire to end their movements, turning
motion into stillness, cousin of death.
No calculus can forecast the moment at which
the bob of our pendulum will cease its
relentless pursuit of a goal we cannot
understand, a thirst for something language
cannot describe, for words never reach the end.