2am thoughts on a Saturday morning [sonnet]

To dwindle yet remain
is our destiny perchance
up till the seventh plane
it is all a fine romance

we brew tea & we try
to accomplish this or that
understated yet wry
maybe sums up where we're at

as days & weeks unfold
there's a tinge of autumn now
while neither young nor old
there's a wrinkle on the brow

perhaps we're more or less
interfused with happiness

Famous final tweets [gnomic verses]

What of famous final tweets?
when buried we text no more
yet the cosmos soon repeats
each word on a yonder shore

thus does the publishing proceed
in echo-chamber broadcast
happy the soul who now might heed
the chance that has not yet passed

might status updates yet still be filed
from various spheres of being?
the chronicle of our states compiled
for various eyeballs' seeing?

O what is our final home? (you ask)
discovering that's the tweeter's task