The flotsam of time

 

In the grand rift of

the swirling library hall

of the paradoxical cosmic palace,

where the lord and keeper of unsealed stories

sits watching the cosmos bend and twist.

 

The dancing orbs,

the magnificent worlds

that the other gods

look down upon with such scorn.

"The flotsam of time" they scoff.

 

That melting pot of who knows what,

bubbling with what ifs, and so many possible plots,

always filled the keeper with awe.

 

The moments when the dust and ashes

coasted across vast galaxies in majestic,

graceful fluid ballets, pirouetting across

the emptiness of space.

 

He saw as those dusts combined,

clumping together to form

something dazzlingly sublime.

The spheres that begat the stories of time.

 

On the grand cosmic clock,

this was mere months ago.

Until then the shelves had lain empty,

spare for a shelf labelled, “The pantheon.”

 

Then a cosmic week ago.

A new sphere.

Insignificant.

But strangely beautiful.

 

A cosmic collision.

The universe colluding

to place a new moon

so perfectly in position.

 

Could this be it, the place of prophecy?

 

However, the keeper didn’t see, 

for space is 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.

On the new planet water amassed.

 

The land heated and cooled,

the moon pulled the tides

and miraculously...

Life emerged.

 

Suddenly the shelves

rained with whole new stories.

The keeper unsure, scanned the heavens,

saw nothing untoward.

 

He pulled at a book.

Delicious, delirious thoughts

flooded his many brains.

They told tales of giants,

walking those green lands,

grazing upon the trees and plants.

 

He scanned the view

for something new,

but saw only a blanket of starlight.

 

A day passed.

And on the planet a comet crashed.

The giants were laid to waste.

Their stories great but now no longer.

 

But wait.

The mammals

have taken their place,

scuttering across the surface.

The sharks slinking through the seas,

winged creatures flying free.

 

It all seems so majestic

and wonderful he thinks.

"If only I could see it."

 

5:30 this morning.

New stories started

popping forward.

New life.

 

Two legged hunters,

devouring everything.

Ploughing the green, ripping up the trees.

Building monstrosities. Calamitous monstrosities.

 

So much noise. So dirty.

But in amongst it all

a brief snippet of song.

 

And on the shelves the books

pile up so fast, so many stories

formed in a heartbeat.

 

Then, 5 minutes ago,

they forged a new sun.

Dropped it upon their own.

 

And now the clock

is ticking seconds down.

 

He glances across the milky way.

A tiny world.

Blue and green.

 

A flash.

 

The story has ended

before it truly begun.