Where might I be
in my last breath?
When the ongoing sunset fades into darkness
where absent stars twinkle, ignorantly,
and the oceans drink and ruins crumble
in eternal, perfunct serenity,
for there will be no dawn,
where might I be?
At the unmaking of history when origins die
and the land masses curdle and cover the sea,
when Poseidon emerges to reclaim his rites
while Hades laughs gaily, where might I be?
When time falters truly over caesura
-If "when" it can truly be considered to be-
And the void calmly beckons for matter's fair soul;
when the ellipse quietly loops, without warning,
and darkness pervades over freedom and truth
that cannot exist ingenuinely
for nothing remains except nobody,
if 'be' I can be, where might I be?
At the end of the pages, where the margins dissolve
live creatures of forethought creation who choose
to acknowledge the limits of what they control,
or not, says their God, says the author, says I.
For every soul, a collective demise.
And a needless debate o'er if preconceived.
But the truths I create are the truths that will stand.
And so, at the end, here is where I am.