There I stand at the very end of time,
looking out into the endless chasm in despair.
The air seems to swirl above it as it sings to me.
The gyre plays in my head one of those sad songs,
which reminds me life is a memory of passing moments.
The second coming has at last arrived.
I look to the distance; the falcon has escaped,
clinging to the sky, fleeing the falconer.
Myriad muses spring into my head.
They speak to me of Yeats.
And I realize. all things fall apart.
I hear the final freedom cry of the falcon,
shot down by the angry falconer.
A final revelation has come.
The trumpets have been sounded,
and Michael has descended from the heavens.
What has caused this unstoppable madness?
Is this the way the world must end?
Once I was told the world would end
not with a bang, but with a whimper.
Over the dunes
In the distance
over the sands
in the conscience
falls the shadow.
Even now Giza has aligned itself with the stars long lost:
The return of the night sky of eons past,
forsaken and forgotten, running its final course.
And arisen from the slopes, the great beast
tilts its head skyward
while, I, crest-fallen, linger on.
Our destruction is at hand;
some great reminder has brought us back.
And I stare out beyond my impending demise,
as the sky opens up before me,
"Let the gates be opened."
The end is at hand.