The flotsam of time version 2

 

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.