Event horizon. The faintest stroke of the rosey dawn.
The end of time or so it sounds.
Clawing, scratching and crying to abound.
Here it comes the future drawn.
As my past self gives its final yawn, please, no funeral mound.
Let the belly of the wolf be my final ...

Poetry Time 107: Posthuman
Andreas_Helixfinger at 12:00AM, Feb. 2, 2025
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