In the grand rift of
the swirling library hall
of the paradoxical
cosmic palace, of all
that is, was and will be.
Where the lord and keeper
of unsealed stories sits
watching the cosmos
bend and twist, ripple and twirl,
across the glaring window screen
as the parchment of time
continues to unfurl.
Those dancing orbs.
Twisting spheres of swirling reverie.
Such magnificent worlds
full of majestic pleasantries.
Worlds that the other gods
look down upon with such scorn.
"The flotsam of time"
they scoff, as they sup on wine
born of the great vineyard
at the end of the time.
That melting pot
of whom knows what,
tied to the what ifs,
and so many possible plots.
Always filled
the keeper with awe.
Watching the cosmos
as its storylines start to roar.
The moments.
Those magical, glorious monuments
of time, the ticking clockface
of the cosmic timepiece, a symphony,
in musical dust and ashes
coasting across vast galaxies,
in majestic, graceful fluid ballets,
pirouetting
across the emptiness of space.
He sat witness as those dusts
combined, saw as they clumping
together to form something
dazzlingly sublime.
The spheres that begat
the stories of time.
On the grand cosmic clock,
this was all mere months ago.
A calendar ripped and torn,
but a small piece of time
when time is so tall.
Until then, the storied shelves
had lain empty,
Spare for a shelf
titled “The pantheon”
which ticked on throughout eternity.
Then a cosmic week ago,
A new sphere.
A blip on the screen.
A speck of dust.
Insignificant.
But strangely beautiful.
A cosmic collision.
The universe colluding
to put a new moon
so perfectly in position.
Could this be it, the place of prophecy?
However, the keeper didn’t see,
for space is such a vast place,
and even with as many eyes as he,
you can only look at so much
at any one time.
A day or so passed as he gazed
at empty rocks circling a red star.
Whilst a click to the right, water
amassed and seas started to rise
over this planet, just out of sight.
The land heated, then cooled,
the moon pulled the tides and
miraculously...
Life emerged from the depths.
Suddenly the shelves rained with
whole new stories. New possibilities.
The keeper excited, unsure,
scanned the heavens,
saw nothing untoward.
Where were the stories being forged?
What had caused the surge?
He pulled a book, scanning the pages
delicious, delirious thoughts flooded
his many brains.
They told tales of giants, walking those lands
of emerald grass, and molten glass,
grazing on the trees and plants,
as the cycle of day and night pass by so fast.
Giant reptilian beings, and in the skies,
winged creatures silhouette the sunrise.
He scanned the view for something new,
but saw only a blanket of starlight.
Where were these stories?
I have found life. But now I can’t grab it.
A day passed. On the planet
a shadow is cast,
as from the skies above
a comet crashed.
Shockwave blast,
and the giants were laid to waste.
Vaporised. The books stopped
as the planet healed.
Their stories great but
the wounds too real.
But wait...
A trickle of new tales.
The mammals have taken their place
scuttering across the surface.
The sharks slinking through the seas,
winged creatures flying free.
The trickle becomes a flood.
It all seems so majestic
and wonderful he thinks.
"If only I could see it."
5:30 this morning.
New stories started to erupt.
New life. Two legged hunters,
devouring everything in sight.
Ploughing the green, ripping up
the trees. Building monstrosities.
Calamitous monstrosities.
so many stories, vast catalogues
many pages long, wars fought,
lost and won. So much noise.
So dirty. But in amongst it all
a brief snippet of song.
And on the shelves the books
pile up at a tremendous rate,
Countless lives forged in a heartbeat.
Then,
5 minutes ago,
they birthed a new sun.
Dropped it upon their own.
On the pages cities burn,
and shadows are sewn
into the fabric of time.
And now the clock
is ticking its final
seconds down.
He glances across
the milky way.
A tiny world
Blue and green.
A flash in the dark.
One last gasp.
A collapse.
The books stopped,
no stories will come
from that desolate, tragic, young rock,
now that the land is dead
and the air is poison.
The story has ended
before it truly begun.
