All you see is what was,
what is
apparently,
enough.
Lungs inhaling, people slipping
past a line.
Space collapsing on itself;
time churning, slipping, sulking.
Light pulsing,
passing,
placing,
itself
on a face it’s seen before, or a billion of them
Only to leave them,
fading endlessly
into darkness.
Or what’s called darkness,
death, or a dead end. The abyss.
A dark point; or a point within itself.
A point not going anywhere, lying still in the middle of space.
A point trapped within itself, frozen,
suspended, sucked of all its time.
A point alive only when it’s named, but at no other point in time.
No other–
What’s the point
Getting larger and larger into emptiness.
Universe unfurling into a big empty nothing.
All forms of life fading, disintegrating from light, proceeding into darkness
Fragmenting into space
outer,
empty,
space.
Just space, taking space, creating space,
transforming
gone.
space.
A point lying amid a billion other empty spaces just like it.
A point nearly breathless, though still heaving.
A point nearly obliterated, but still funneling
A point; a consciousness
still percolating information
transmitting noise into
this.
Pointless roads. Until now.
Breaking ground until BROKEN
A howl throttling from eons away
A vision spiraling from the blood of these open veins,
A dream:
HOW tomorrow we rise again.
Look up from the deep, the static
All of time and space,
The stars.
They are still OURS.
J.T.