The void keeps no accounts

 

Legacy counts every act.
Memory tallies every debt and triumph.
We sum grievances and victories like currency.
Line items feel monumental under the lamp.

Mortals build volumes of record to prove existence.
Time opens the heavy cover and shakes out the pages.
The dark expanse absorbs the ink without a trace.
Cosmic entropy keeps no footnote.
The page remains far more comfortable
than the dark.

Eternity needs no courtroom

when actor and stage are one.

Choice shapes the substance

shaping the chooser.

The man who destroys the world

will also know he is of and from the world.

The void cares not.

My dreams were an argument with my long-passed grandpa

about where to throw the apples.

It was Adam and Newton and Grandpa and I

all intertwined in the bendy apple tree bare branches,

with leavings on our toes.

The rotted apples lay on the ground too long,

having gone unpicked,

far beyond his need or greed.

Yet throwing them into the swamp

only ensured future trees that outlasted us both.

The tree called to us to spread it,

and we did its bidding,

enwrapped in our own gravity,

concerned with our own vanity.