The Artist at the End of Time

Look me play
Legs dangling over out
Listen the dark
Listening itself away
Strip it down
To the strips streaming
Out of sight

Sits the poet
At the end of time
Pen storming
Life forming
Sits him wading
Cosmic brine

I might have
Wrote a change in world
You might have
Listened my omens
But it's stripped now
To strips reeling
Gone

An artist sits
At the end of the world
What more?
What for?
Words pour, now
Out his eyes and mouth
As he too withers