there is an experation date on your world, like a dish of cold egg salad stacked in a grocery store "salad bar." i do not mean your salmon coloured sun flickering out after billions of years pass, nor do i speak of your petty squables over dead & long rotted vegetation. i mean the endgame, i mean Final. when the seams of the entire universe will unravel as the demigods clash in battle. where dreams will scald & bend & all the pillars of the sky will tumble to the ground.
hear me the way a sixteen (16) year old hears albums he listens to in the dark.
the yawning nuclear silos of your world as just an en garde in this war. the hordes of dead clamboring up city streets, the sunken faced mutants who will inherit the glass deserts that used to be your cities- these are the heralds of the opening moves of Final. the sepulchral infant & the fisher queen will draw the curtain back from the lamp of night & all the world will be bathed in darkness. the remnant of mankind's vast warhulks, rumbling machines like the khanate durga or the lionhead's tortise, will wander alone in an earth empty of life, but for some few small, hidden pockets of humanity. those who survive these devices of murder will be sport for those feckless godlings who delay the choice of banner.
hear me like the slow count of primes on a seti headpiece.
the mermaid will come forth from her well & be smashed. that will be the breaking of the last seal, the cut of the ribbon on Final. of all things living on earth, the last to die will be the scarabs of the modern age; all 47 chitinous things holding on to the last scraps of breath & fodder, perish slowly, lamellar shells dehydrating layer by layer so they appear to peel like dying rose petals. then the waltz will unfold, & ruin will be tempted. Final ends when the dweller on the threshold is no more. when the hive of heaven is reclaimed by its children.