Eternity and the Mirror

How is it that when I bring stagnation to the mysteries in creation
I see the dim grayness give birth again to itself
and glitter powerfully under the dead in the sky?

And how when I crucify my immortality
am I defeated by the completion of the voice that speaks
for the fallibility of reality?

What prayer when I unearth the ancient souls
cries out to the justification of Fate on its deathbed
and breaks open the bones of tellurian exhalation?

Is it that I was created for the wrong reason?
Does my mortality become its own perpetuation?
Am I the final scream of the inexistence?

If I have known my face I am unfortunate;
If I have seen motion it is uniformity fluctuating tirelessly;
If I have felt the livid spasm of transience it is its own empty satiation.

Therefore I will spread my withered useless wings and succumb.
Hold out your desiccated hand to me, and I beg,
Let me go with you to the world all life desires.