What happens the first instant
after our world's end
Is everything still, the pendulum
that lost its surly swing
Does the carven clock sit idle,
not quite enough cuck
to manage one more koo—
But still there’s something left
Or is it a different sort of spring,
not then unwinding fate
But coiling tightly, tighter still
until it snaps, breaks free
Destroys the maker’s hand,
rips down the veil of heaven
And damning every prophet,
sheds wild starlight, wand'ring still
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
What happens the first instant
after our world's end
Is everything still, the pendulum
that lost its surly swing
Does the carven clock sit idle,
not quite enough cuck
to manage one more koo—
But still there’s something left
Or is it a different sort of spring,
not then unwinding fate
But coiling tightly, tighter still
until it snaps, breaks free
Destroys the maker’s hand,
rips down the veil of heaven
And damning every prophet,
sheds wild starlight, wand'ring still
