This is the end.
That place you thought you’d never be.
Yes, this is that abyssal void.
A system of anarchy.
Where the ruler weaves the seams,
And you are lost to time.
No one knows about this time,
This place, this space, this end
Of the borderlands where you seem
To be where gravity can’t be.
Floating up in the anarchy,
Kissing the emptiness of that void.
Everyone knows that once is their time.
All bracing against the anarchy
Of misery and insurmountable ends.
In this place no one wants to be
You’re now a stitch in the forever seam.
Where gravity is void, it seems
Lost as a concept to the airless void.
Gravity thought it could never be
Without itself. There is no time
To keep in this place of ends,
Where the only reign is of king anarchy.
The riot response of nothing, the anarchy
Remains plotting its chaotic seams;
Bringing about sense’s end.
In this airless, lifting void,
Pressure waves are absent, lost to time;
In the place that should not be.
Time’s anarchical scene ceases to be.
Void’s seams tear and repair the anarchy.
Be it this end’s last time,
Weaving with a needle its own scrap seams,
With an tensionless needle in the void,
At the place where things make ends
Meet, and spitfire sparks seem
To cast out the seams, to be void
Of the things which weave their ends.