A loop spins, round and round concentrically
The desiccated sound of horns blowing
Each moment decays softer, sounds glowing
Like Dylan Thomas nights, eccentrically
Drifting off to their death, romantically
The silver shavings drift in the flowing
Transfer to new realities, slowing
Where at one point they will stop, caustically
In the crackle of death’s silent embrace. Sweetly
The universe dissolves into entropy
chaos welcomed in the growing quiet.
the horns adumbrate their demise fleetly
across spaces of digital copy
where time ceases final: silent riot.