Unsound is still and hearth benign,
Which instead becomes strange depart,
His earnest thought comes modest known,
And the saints draw lines from the stars,
The oceans swept and hundreds pass to fall,
By and large this man from centuries hurled,
Who threw no fault except for hands he breach,
Found himself in the distant space afar
And soon shall he in knees to fall despair,
Ere thus he laid to plea for time in peace,
Ere thus he comes to dark is lost for time,
This big bang his mind comes into foray,
Learns that his life is but fraction of this,
Sees himself as small as what he’s worth,
And the stars that rise and fall,
And the waves that part from shore to sea,
The passing of cars through day and night,
The glimmer of sunlight through day and year;
For he is only a fraction of the sum of light,
The Universe is dead; the stars have all but fallen,
And thus he breathes the vacuum of space to be whole,
And thus he signs his life away to the Fate of Fate.
There to think of the present time,
But what time is there if time is not to think?
His Universe knows no time but matter to predict,
As he floats, he sees himself falling into nothing:
From nothing hence he fell into nothing more,
Then he sighs in relief that all in wait was gone,
Ere he releases himself into the deepest dark he crease,
And as he folds the Universe becomes Him,
And as he hides, the Universe remains a single atom.

Life, Mysterious, Poetry, Works
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