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A Poem

An acoustic guitar at the end of the world has only three strings  

but no one has set the body  

on fire. 

Someone tried but now his bones have turned to a xylophone, 

the heart eaten out  

so carefully. 

The band at the end of the world will play the worst song you’ve ever heard, 

 the most primal chord,  

a voice like hell echoing  

from a canyon, or the bottom  

of a well 

From the bottom of a well a sound, will bend around,  

surround you,  

before finally escaping through the keyhole of the sun. 

The sun at the end of the world moves unmapped, almost trapped 

like a child’s drawing in a corner, a clock running  

useless circles for an empty room. 

A computer at the end of the world will laugh at you, 

The way you taught it to. 

It will execute the way you taught it, too. 

Some say the world will end in fire, 

Some say in ice. 

I say it will electrocute you in the foot of water 

flooding the ground floor. 

At the end of the world heaven is imagined 

As that pitch black place 

Between all stars, and time, and collisions of gravity.


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