The End and Days to Come

300 days, give or take
of waking without any hard commitments, 
no required sentences;
the days and nights, all my own-
cursed and splendid

(okay, mostly squandered,
but I'll confess no more, no less than being blameless
what I've been made to endure.
There are no coping skills for extinction.)

Nothing matters as the words have.
or will. or should. 
so I shall let myself be selfish, then
never share how or when 
I soak and swim in them; swallow them
by bits and devoured whole...
Surely now I taste of them.
They pour from me
and in rare triumphs
onto paper-
leave me giddy, greedy 
then complicit
while I wait for the end of the world

more often than not, I am paralyzed
by the tick-ticking, grieving clock-
the doomed posterity I cannot stop
the contemplation or taking pity--
I keep myself lost in the irony, 
in the limbo of these last Revelations
where there is nothing 
but to count the all and only
to come.


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