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

well-intended ethcings

coffined between hardcovers.


Others will only see us by our names–

the deafening blows of our many.


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