by Nick Gisburne
A cold illusion shimmers in the dark,
The torn, tormented pieces of a dream.
By magic, or by miracle, a spark
Consumes them, feeding, feasting as they scream.
Expanding, sending filaments of skin,
It picks and pulls the tapestry of space.
Impossible infinities begin
To mix, to move, to form and forge a face.
It looks upon the universe, destroyed.
The hunger to be human made it so.
Alone, it cries, a creature in the void,
Omnipotent, with nowhere else to go.
The god, the child, can never comprehend.
The future died. Creation was the end.
