Black coals spin universes into extinction
there’s uni in universe
mass of moss
onto spectrums of itself
life made in void
here nothings die.
There is no collapse in here; universe is all there is.
and here we lie:
vessels on lines–
words in our speech.
the death is a silence we can only see.
“experience creates knowledge”
to die on a page
a library burial
where the masses welcome us into the stacks.
We are vulnerable utmost to our “selves”.
identity is authenticity;
agency inscribes our tombstones
coffined between hardcovers.
Others will only see us by our names–
the deafening blows of our many.