On Entropy
By Julia Kudler
Apocalypse is just a pretty word
we use to calm the overwhelming terror of knowing that
eternity
is an unfathomable concept.
Nothingness
lives in the space between my fingers,
the melody of the love song my first girlfriend never wrote me,
the appearance of a hand placed on the back of my head.
Entropy must be a three part harmony; what is
the sound of existence if not
the thrum of glittering flies coating my windowpane?
This place I have lived and loved and hated will, one day, be
scrubbed clean by deep breaths and aching fingers, but my body
still shakes in the supposed safety of my childhood bedroom.
This exchange is everywhere. The earth itself
is nothing more than the last memory of long dead stars.
Every person I have seen late at night tapping their feet on the subway,
all the feelings that I thought were good enough to be love,
my grandfather’s ashes scattered into the bay he lived for,
the views so beautiful I can’t help but feel this world is something worth living in,
each and every kind of rain that has gotten stuck in my eyelashes,
every action or inaction that has bridged every then to every now,
when taken into holistic consideration, I simply can’t believe
it could be possible that all this does not come to an end.
//
It could be possible that all this does not come to an end.
When taken into holistic consideration, I simply can’t believe
every action or inaction that has bridged every then to every now,
each and every kind of rain that has gotten stuck in my eyelashes,
the views so beautiful I can’t help but feel this world is something worth living in,
my grandfather’s ashes scattered into the bay he lived for,
all the feelings that I thought were good enough to be love,
every person I have seen late at night tapping their feet on the subway,
is nothing more than the last memory of long dead stars.
This exchange is everywhere. The earth itself
still shakes in the supposed safety of my childhood bedroom,
scrubbed clean by deep breaths and aching fingers. But my body --
this place I have lived and loved and hated -- will one day be
the thrum of glittering flies coating my windowpane.
The sound of existence, if not
entropy, must be a three part harmony. What is
the appearance of a hand placed on the back of my head?
The melody of the love song my first girlfriend never wrote me
lives in the space between my fingers.
Nothingness
is an unfathomable concept.
Eternity,
we use to calm the overwhelming terror of knowing that
apocalypse is just a pretty word.
