What happens the first instant
after our world’s end
Is everything still, the pendulum
that lost its surly swing

Does the carven clock sit idle,
not quite enough “cuck”
to manage one more koo—
But still, there’s something left

Or is it a different sort of spring,
not then unwinding fate
But coiling tightly, tighter still
until it snaps, breaks free

Destroys the maker’s hand,
rips down the veil of heaven
And damning every prophet,
sheds wild starlight, wand’ring still