the gravitation-wave aftershock
of melancholia ripples outwards
in an instant, over a million centuries
yet crawling at the speed of light
from star to star, from galactic core
to the tenuous rim of spiral nebulae,
the great sadness of loss and endings,
they still find shrapnel and fragments
of lives as they clear away the rubble
as we wait for the kiss of the quantum
ghosts to arrive on seeds of light,
in spectral halls on severed worlds
they detonate suns to lost memory
and speculate rumours of extinction,
yes, we are the phantom presence
imprinted in molecular patterns
on the walls of empty towers, yes,
amino-probes revolve hot jupiters
that register only absolute zero,
for we are no longer here, we are in
that transition to exile beyond form,
frankly, I despise these songs,
these laments lodge in my craw,
until I spew moons of ice, until
my scream ripples outwards
over a million centuries,
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