Poem From a Dusty Notebook

Even the sun will

Die and that says

A lot about eternity.

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Imagine all the eight

Wonders of the world

Gone but not really

Away.

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Imagine all of our

Art and all the good

It’s supposed to do

Going to sleep.

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I wonder what we are?

The germs will

Survive, right?

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Will this realm close

Like a wound that’s

Healed? Or shall

The creatures

Whom spawn from

The mold on our bones

Be so with infa-red

Vision?

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Would “advanced civilization”

Eventually come around?

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Will they question

War the same way

We do now?

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