The End of Time


A weather-beaten watchman,
Stares still at the sky,
Anticipating the arrival of
That which will change it all.
The clock's hands have ceased their
Dizzying rotation and are
Idle.
Idly stands the weather-beaten watchman,
Hoping his premonition
Is but a farce,
A bitter nightmare on a wispy cloud
Of thoughtless fiction.
But the clock still is frozen,
His breath still icy cold,
And the starry sky makes way
For the stormy supernova.

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