snowflakes

One day, one night, the
world will end; all
memories and art and
artifice will cease and we,
our helixes unravelled,
will disappear
as if we had never been.

Perhaps, some ship of fools will
survive the many lifetimes it takes
to reach another world worth living on;
perhaps, hitching a ride on some lonely
asteroid, a virus or two will seek out
new chains to infect. Perhaps not.

More likely, far
from this new
emptiness, a
different kind of
life in this, or another,
universe:

a birth, cradled by an isolated dip in
spacetime, never knowing, never
caring it’s all happened before,
happens again; until happenstance
itself ceases, and there
is, and was,
no time.