It is not the heat death of the universe
that makes me shiver
(when all is frozen dust in the dark
and the motion finally stops)
It is not the absolute singularity of death
(supposed old friend,
but in fact an end, and nothing more
unprepared for and a juddering
cancellation of everything you ever saw)
That makes my silence break
in the night.
It is not the choral beams of voice
(that pierce my throat and rend it in two
after the string section’s run me through
to leave me looking into space)
crumpling my face
with cramps and body shudders
It’s that after all these years
(of everything that I could give)
another steps in, and you step aside.
Now the world has nowt to hide.
Now I know its meaningless heart.
There is no art to this story
No fairytale axioms in’t
Just me, terrified, alone in time
a remnant of an old design
torn up into hundreds of pieces,
and scattered on the wind.