On The Eve of The End of The Universe
Being a poet requires patience
faith that time's slow erosion isn't vile
isn't just the march of atoms wanting to be immensely alone
Things must be willing to continue to find them beautiful
Even objects caught in death throws want
It's hard these days to see the tap dance as more than just sound
breaking in concrete rooms
against an eardrum
Wave against the side of a levee
There is a required need to see humanity succeed
Even at their worst they are
Notice the lack of things needing to continue to be beautiful
sit in the lack let it alone you
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