Poem: At Long Last

I leaned and put my finger to my temple,
all my energies gathered in one place,
overwhelmed by the definite departure,
my brain has slowed.

How much control is left for me?

My death might bring greater reward,
but I won't know until it happens,
and then it will be too late to go back
to the beginning.

Will this thought be my last?

This fracture has cracked wider,
spilling out secrets and I could ignore,
the repair is somewhere,
waiting for more action.

Should I chose the wrong answer?

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