POEM—MAN BOWS OUT

Writing

The closing jaws of entropy

that snap and foam and say to me,

you are the stumbling primate, tamed.

Kindling for the star-fed flame.

The slow and terrible unwinding,

the fabric of the void untwining.

God’s hand draws the star strings tight.

You huddle with your feeble light.

You rattle a tired fist and curse

the gods and all the fates diverse,

and rant at the darkness that slowly comes,

and the stars that blink out one by one.

The last man dies, insane and alone,

and his scream is the voice of Gabriel’s horn.

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