A symphony for the singularity

 

At the dark end

of the street of time

the universe busks

carnival songs

to the swirling

clouds of darkness

that descend.

 

As the ringmaster

spins the last

of the plates

of day.

Letting

it wobble.

 

Before

 

Falling.

 

And crashing.

 

Breaking into fragments

and blowing away.

 

And when you

close your eyes

do you sometimes hear

the clashing of cymbals?

As symbols draw themselves

in archaic script on the

canvas of your mind.

 

If so,

then maybe

it has seen into you.

Hollowed.

Clawing at the

unspooling walls

in the interstitial void,

between yesterday

and the day forward.

 

And as it all fades to black,

A haunting melody,

a harpsichord

churning your

every

memory.

 

The being at the

end of time.

His swirling eyes,

looking deeply

into the cosmic stew,

his view,

a thousand planets

colliding.

 

The cataclysmic collapse

of all the atoms of this cosmos

into one singularity.

 

And you

 

just a dust speck

in the eyes of madness.

 

As silence falls.

Soundscape of chaos

 

In the silence

of a crashing

 

d

   a

      y

        d

           r

             e

                a

                  m

 

                       There is still one that sleeps.

 

For his story

was never complete.

History always repeats.

 

His horrors not final,

his creep not fully

etched into

your still warm grave,

where your bones weep

as the demented beasts feast.

 

For in the silence

                              there is a noise.

 

A sound

             that

churns

             the air,

turns

             your stomach

with fear,

              stirs the atoms

that cluster

              at your feet,

yearns for you

              to hear.

 

For when you hear,

you feel,

and when you feel

 

you

 

fall

 

deeper under

his spell

 

The hum

 

was never just a noise.

It wasn’t just a

catastrophic kaleidoscopic

soundscape of chaos,

it was a tearing of hope,

a moment of loss

as you walk in its echoes,

like a fog descending

or a mist that rises.

 

The hum is the god of all liars,

he mimics the day

by painting the night,

and he is

the fear

in the eyes

of children

too young

to speak

of the sights

The 44A has left the station

 

The station empty. Dead.

A graveyard of old stories

left to bleed into the stone,

into the cobwebbed screens

That once buzzed overhead.

Old wives tales

told under a full moon.

Dreams faded all too soon.

Screams of joyful nights

replaced by silent mourning.

 

Departure signs sigh in staccato light,

places never seen, names never read.

The 44a long departed.

Changed course and sauntered away,

but the station still sits,

as it had every other day.

Stained and grey with

each passing hour of decay.

 

Worn pathways where footsteps

used to tread. Now just strains

of dread and silence.

As the ghost stories

start to rise. Past lives.

Playing on repeat, echoing

the hours when life once thrived.

 

Now only dust mites

and lonely nights.

 

Moments when

the rift in the cosmos

gives voice to

those stories long dead.

 

"Shit", she said, as the

shopping bag split,

as the contents of her

world smashed the concrete,

and the carton of spilt

orange juice

saturated the floor.

In silence she wept as

she glowed beetroot red,

as the chuckling kids

yelled

something obscene,

and the man

with the can of stella

tripped over his feet.

 

Incoming umbrella dripping

with long forgotten rain,

running for a bus

that will never arrive.

damp footprints

on the worn night.

The sound of engines

dying in the mid-summer heat,

as another pair of eyes

sees love take their ride

on a different bus, to another sky.

The pain inside never dies.

 

The seasons still turn.

Winter follows autumn.

Summer follows spring,

the clothing cycles

through ages

as those

passing time

on bicycles

get told to

dismount.