who will call it a poem
what will be the poem
the poem for the final days
the harping back to the good old days
when tomorrow was a possibility
or a poem for no tomorrow
colouring the today’s between
who will write the poem
the poem for the final days
the fool or the penitent of no avail
lost with the past back to the wall
burning tomorrow’s door falling
inwards all the words choked
who will say who is that singing
the poem for the final days
not me not you not anybody i vouch
save on top of the climbing upon
the piled bodies politics intestate
of the electorate’s claws
who is falling in last with me
not the poem for the final days
for it is written in the rock of our hearts
in the iron leeched from our dried blood
burnt the spectrum of time
of all living stopped
the poem of the final days
alone in space where no space is perceived
for no perception is
until another self-replicator says
not in any language we know
i have discovered this and i will call it
a poem for the early days
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