Finito

And that's it,
The Tortoise, did reach the finish line-
Ultimately.
So, what about the victorious feeling?
None surfacing.
It's a dead end in a dead man's world-
An empty soul stares out with it's empty eyes
At the podium.
Grimace, laced with distaste,
And a deep scorn,
Steals over the benign features.
Vacant mind,
Searches through the numbness-
To seek a way through,
To fade away in absolute abstraction.
The end point,
Seems sanguine now.
An acceptance of a minority status-
Being slow, to know,
Yet loving the scathed sojourn.
Was it death of a belief system?
And what could ego do too,
At such a rate-
When the fate lies in a finito?