Endoscopy

It seems to be a form of divination,

All of the chickens gone, but not at peace,

The parts all fried. We read the gizzards, though.

They seemed to say that all is what it was;

No matter what we do, the end comes last.

The scholars have their doubts. They cast the bones

Upon the waters, looking to get a rise,

Some answers bubbling up, a withered arm,

Trove in a gnarly hand. The argument

Which they propose is, Everything foretold

In great detail and ending in the dark,

The sea worms and the earthworms in the dark,

And no one ever learns what happens next.