Two things.

First:

The dust of time does settle
Over the soul of stories told.
To give a shroud of sentience,
And let the story unfold.

An Earth to test their mettle,
A lust for land and gold.
A fear of death; a reticence,
While the universe grows old.

Second:

Slipping,
More deeply into the truth of things.
A self serving light,
Burning with the energy of all that could be.
We are born of the abyss.

All things are of equal truth.
Knowing the uncertainties,
Doubting all that is.
All that could be.

In the spaces between the mind,
Where questions lie, unanswered,
Hints of greater Truths. Torturous;
Realities beyond measure.

Existence:
Secure in it's improbability.
Impossibilities, given form.
The Universe lives:
Within, without.
All that is:
Within, without.