Everyone is contained on a small card within
the Black Rolodex
It has a space for their name
and it has a space for the exact moment
when that name no longer resonates in the Great Weave
It has a space denoting when all actions cease
when all belief becomes meaningless
when all striving becomes wasted energy
when all intentions are wiped clean off
of the cosmic stage

It is a pure little montage
Silent screams, ordered by circumstance
Time is a licking tongue upon it
We curl our ears around that tongue
as it curls around our ears
straining to hear that faintest of hissing
straining to see it coming for us

We are all blind sided in the end
Our lust for bringing it calling on our enemies
is only matched by our need to stave off
its lust for calling out our own names
Heated passion
The final lovers' spat
Where silence is the final word