live long enough,

you reach a personal singularity,

all your past merges into

one seething torrent,

a metastasized moment

(no dementia required).

you are forcibly selected for time travel duty,

forever confused as to how much time has passed

since childhood and your last meal.

Hollywood stars in your pop culture firmament

dim and burn out in bangs and whimpers,

the increasingly grim Reaper

taking names like an 80s action star

at the flick’s bloodbath climax.

the impotent and unquiet desperation

of being closer to death than birth

is enough to make Thoreau’s ghost weep.

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