In this world, so poorly tailored and sewn with white thread,
In the icy, needled, lonely wastes, where impossible to warm ourself with a spark,
We reckon at least not to vanish entire (as once planned the trilobite),
But imagine how funny if our calculations were absolutely misread,
If Betelgeuse strikes Earth with all the brute force from the cosmic dark,
And yet, I would not be able, of course, to stop loving you one bite.
And the eyes of all observers will dim: of men, and of fireflies, and squirrels alike,
And burnt out by the supernova laser, the heavens become a fleece, shining bright,
And our planet shall join the majority, the dead voiceless many.
Yet within the sockets of skulls that stare into death’s abyssal strike,
There will gleam the tiny silver grains of sand—these are tears melting in the fading light—
And I won’t save you—not even with the love I live by, I breathe, nor any.
2025.09.29