On the edge of this realm, there sits the Architect

He creates an intricate universe that he works to perfect

Taking a firm hand, his tools to every aspect

There is not one atom he seems to neglect

But the universes he creates are not his selfless subjects

It is not the will of his own, the cosmos reflects

Because all the Architect does is observe and protect

For it is the free will of its inhabitants, he yearns to respect

 

In the scape of his mind, he sees all as equal

From mountains and pebbles, to sheep and people

As they all rest in his setting of no good nor evil

However, there is no sympathy to men’s hideous upheaval

There is no such act that he deems as lethal

Death of life is just conservation, deceitful

In the judgment of death, he is not legal

For that is the job of the Gods and Goddesses, high and regal

 

He does not merely live, but omnipresent, he exists

Floating a vast hyperspace, peacefully adrift

Though he has the immense power of the dimension to eclipse

He chooses to stare into the face of the dark abyss

Balancing his fantastic power, for greed of it is amiss

Acting as necessary, from his will he resists and desists

He works solely in matter’s great twist and untwist

For a titanic presence such as him, a billion is swift

 

As time marches on and eons pass by

He lasts to observe his universes to die

Then to create new ones, from the carnage, they fly

With his great wrench, he puts stars in the sky

Then watches as his creations descend into the vie

Once again, they fall under his cosmic eye

Then the dreaded cycle continues, goodbye after bye 

Until he says “No more, here on and hereby”

 

In each universe, the great Gods stand to rule

To our place in this universe, they are not fools

This is the hearth, and to the fire, we’re fuel

With fates ranging, some good and some cruel

And some in an ostensibly nothingness cesspool

It is painless to think that life is a precious jewel

But not so much as the universe begins to drastically cool

At the end of these days, the macrocosm is but a ghoul

 

In the eyes of the architect, our time has been served

Intensely have our interactions and thoughts been observed

Many bow down and believe it to be deserved

While others strive, for carbon life to remain preserved

Only at the end of it all is the perception truly curved

But on the edge of reality, there is a place, unnerved

In a cold, desolate spot, there stands the Observer

The last of the human life, reserved on the burner

 

The Observer is truly the last of intelligent kind

The rise and the fall of the gift of the mind

The cumulation of the human race, he can leap across stars unbind

Accepting with honor, the demigod title he’s been assigned

To face the convoluted understanding of that he is inclined

He is weak, as he thinks he is part of the best designed

He is not blessed to have lived in a universe so refined

But simply by favorable chance and luck combined

 

He journeyed long and with difficulty over vast universal debris

To meet the architect, to bring back the time of Gods and carefree

Only at the edge of the dimension could he see the Almighty

The Observer cried, “My Lord, so grand and so free,

Will you not revive the land I so direly wish to see?”

The Architect stilled for a moment, his presence like an endless sea

With his infinite voice, he said, “So elegant with your plea.

But son, you’re mistaken, there is nothing so grand about me”