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, trapped within itself, drained 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 mute minor nothing.
All forms of life fading, disintegrating from light, proceeding into decay
Fragmenting into space
outer,
void,
space.
Amid a billion other empty spaces just like them.
A point nearly breathless, though still heaving.
A point nearly obliterated, but still funneling
A point, then a consciousness
A point still percolating information
and transmitting noise into
this.
A point abandoned. Until now.
A point breaking ground until IT’S BROKEN;
Then a howl throttling from eons away,
Then a vision spiraling from the blood of these open veins,
Then 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.
