We scurry to the edges of our time

We (waste not, want not) save up all our dimes.

(A penny's none too dear these days.) We strain

With waiting out, wading through the stain,

The ooze, morass, of one more tricky year

That's what we say, in case the neighbors  hear.

And oh the tricks we turn; when rainbows fade,

We pull 'em down and sew 'em up. (Fair trade

Certified, of course.) And clouds we use -

diverse in black and white and all gray hues.

Ingenious Business rolling up her sleeves.

"They must be fed and clothed," she says, "And please

Don't tell me it's their future that I'll take."

A pause. "To gain the present, I will stake

Tomorrow."  And she moves back to her work.

...

Stuck on the last line. Suggestions?

Beautiful traces of death:

This is what we are left:

The aroma of a song,

The inevitable, the longing

And the quick, sweet rush of pain,

The sounds, the empty gain

Of space we cannot fill.

The utter, awful thrill

Of death. We wring our hands,

We kneel, we weep, we stand,

We conquer darkness; we endure

And carry home this lonely cure

We found too late: The star expired.

We would go too, but we are tired.