Matter Poem by Sailing to windward

Our actions can shape a future,
but with that curtain fall,
heady tunes for our tomorrows
will fade and fail to play.

While Jays may still search with acorns,
and moons will wax and wane,
the fine matter of our being
will melt and soak away.

This clock, not of our winding,
gives a time we cannot tell.
There's a law to life's fermenting:
there's one last tax to pay.

Everything that comes together
at the end must come apart.
The perhaps of our thereafter,
survives the end of day.