A moment of enlightenment, and we realized that we’re no one.
The lightning flashed and we saw it was all a desert plain.
And, in the same sinister light that revealed us to ourselves,
There seemed to be no sky above. If ever we were born again,
We did so without ourselves, without a self to reincarnate.
The outskirts of some non-existent town, the prologue to
A book that’s not yet written. We’re no one, no one,
Hovering in the air, undone before we've yet existed,
Amongst the dreams of someone who’s
Yet to give life to their creation.
Falling, falling, through the infinite of space
The swirling of a vast ocean around a hole inside the void,
And in the waters float the scenes of all we ever knew:
Faces, voices, houses, books,
All caught up in a sinister whirlpool.
Falling, falling, through the infinite abyss.
We are the nothing, around which this all churns,
Exist so it can spin and spin, always traveling nowhere.
We are the center, decreed geometric existence,
The midpoint that must persist, for every circle has one.
We are the well, in which the walls have given way,
To leave behind just a viscid slime,
Surrounded by the great nothing.
It’s as if hell itself were laughing from within us,
The mad croak of the dead cosmos,
The circling cadaver of space.
Thus comes the end of all, drifting blackly in the wind,
Misshapen, anachronistic, without the God who created,
Without the God itself who turns,
And turns in the darkest of darks,
Impossible, unique, everything.
