Shadows in the Failure of Time

These are the shadows in the failure of time. The collapse of the conscious subjective. The strands of memory shredded in the unraveling of space.

Oh, they whispered, how lucky we are! Life unrelinquished! Yet predator, prey, savior are all the same to the machine.

Now, the footfalls in the Seventh’s Allegretto—its opening march, its unreasoning faith, the sweep of life in its fullness—the redempton, are echoes.

The remaining instruments of intelligence—digital all, knowing all, feel nothing. A final retinal burst of light, then looping in the soil, just the bones left.

The perishable replaced by perfection
Bright and flawless! The song of the lark, endlessly polished here,
Greeting the morning, its flesh left behind.