The end of days
of summer waning
(the wheel turns and turns)
hoping for all manner of impossible things
hanging suspended at 30,000 feet in the sky
and chasing the fleeting sunlight

*

It’s obvious the Universe is not eternal
(though the void, the vacuum
from which the Universe is generated
may very well be)

Entropy ever increases
T.S. had it right, the end
(at least the end we can foresee, beyond
which it is literally impossible to imagine)
comes as a whimper, not a bang
though disorder ever increases still yet churning
it is the mundane disorder
of dust motes drifting and colliding
in a beam of sunlight

Will I ever be able to read this
dreadful scrawling (Entropy ever increases)
when I pick up this notebook again
and flip through its tattered pages

These languid, torpid drip dripping thoughts like the drooling of an idiot
squeezed from an overwrought mind
seeking portents everywhere
when what I should be looking for
is humble serendipity
wonder in the mundane
a place to lie my
weary head
for wondrous
amazement in unlooked for places

growing next to the garbage can
unsought for, unhoped for
suddenly blooming into blazing orange flowers
the color of the dress of the girl
no, the woman I chance met
in some dreamlike place
she gazes up at the stars
and apprehends the universe with
her sharp, dexterous mind
but not enamored by wild flights of fancy
grounded in the reality of this harsh and barren world
though knowing adventure still lurks in hidden places

She told me that which I ought to have already learned
on my long meanderings alone through trackless deserts
and unforgiving wastes
through gnat infested marshes and bogs
and jagged passes through the
grey granite mountains casting long shadows

That time is of the essence
is the essence of existence
That time and chance conspire
to create inevitability

My heart did flare
long did I believe the embers had long burnt out
that dust and ashes were my eternal lot
(Do not weep for me, for I am already dead)
Like searing acid or scouring flames
this longing erupted from my heart
threatening to overwhelm my senses
and overthrow my reason
leaving me in madness, trying
to thread a needle through
a collapsing wormhole
my only hope of getting home

but you can never go home
time means change (entropy ever increases)
the paths are obscured by shifting sands
and memory is a treacherous thing

The Roads, the Seas only run in on one direction
Mission Control can ping and
message you, but you can never answer
back

*

You learn soon enough that you carry home
inside of you
Fragments of memories, songs echoed and
repeated
to your erstwhile fellow travelers

(For what are we but the stories we tell
an integral summation of all the
infinitesimal trifling griefs and joys

The fragments, the moments, the pixels
blur together, and sharp edges
wear down to soft curves
And the Big Picture emerges
but only bit by pit, in furtive glimpses)

and I’ve wandered far afield
I cannot see the way
Perhaps—I have dreamt or even
hoped for—this is the last leg of the
journey. My road ending at the
horizon. The landscape unchanging
as I chase the fleeting sunlight

I think this might be the place
It’s a little lifeless and barren
but it’s home
And even here, I might tend a little garden
and live a little life of small dreams

for vainglory is senseless
especially as the time trickles out
in this age at last
I would rather win some small victories
than fight an endless futile war
doomed to defeat

*

Nevertheless, I cannot escape time and chance
the Road goes ever on and on
and ever the heavens whirl and shudder
as suns are torn asunder
and comets come crashing down

I am just a dust mote
floating aimlessly, careening, jostling
in an infinite sky full of dust motes

But even a dust mote can have
its moment in the sun