Five-Seven-Five – A Poem by Rowe Williams


 Eternity burns. 
Cosmic combustion engine.
Driving ever on.

I want it to stop.
You must make it stop for me.
Please, you must. For me.

The wind is so cold.
Winter teases its embrace.
Fill my bones with death.

Our time is so short.
My love, don't leave me just yet.
Let me feel your heart.

Beating in my chest,
so confident, so assured.
But my mind has doubts.
Universal truths. 
Assuming a universe.
Assuming a truth.

Once upon a time
there was a lovely princess.
And we never met.

Light and shadow interplay.
And I simply watch.

Is the light a myth?
Are photons just perception?
And the shadow too?

Or am I the myth?
Was I ever really here?
I scream soundlessly.

Red curls were her crown.
Freckles adorned her pale skin.
But we never met.

See, we were the myth.
I and her were clearly real.
But there was no "we".

The Princess


Entropy must grow. 
Everything will unravel.
I must become less.

I stare into sky.
I fall forever upward.
And I land myself.

There is a "myself".
What about a self not-me?
"Otherself", per se.

If I'm not just me,
if I'm you and yours, as well,
is there less of me?

I must become less.
Or, rather, I always was.
Because you were more.

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