The rest is spreading out.
The light is vanishing.
The last ones may die drown by their
creation,
or will they see the end of gravity?
The clock had already started to run
when there were no stories to tell.
The distance between whirls had not waited
for water and smoke
and they won't get sick from digesting
crumbs.
Death of a whisper
The drab fate of ashes
Nothing will remember
And all is as it used to be
Under the dead cold layer,
Silence has not said its last word.
The dry crack of lands eventually set
it free.
Breaking through the sky,
the whisper is now blowing hard.
Its light sound is rushing through
emptiness.
Searching for a new light, a piece of
Something
and some acceptable logics.
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