The end is nigh, incoming by-the-by.
A strange starvation in the dusken dry,
A fate the pointed glimmers oft belie :
Untimely end to all the things that try.
Yet that's not dead which can eternal lie,
Unconscious smoke inside conceptual thigh,
Entire universes made of fly,
Of complex figuration and shy's sly.
There is a space where everythings untie,
A tiny fissure between "my" and "cry".
Forever here, forever open it will stay
While with strange eons - even death may die.
All I have to say in my defense is : don't blame me, it's all his fault.