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Does the Universe Retain All the Knowledge of Every Civilization That Ever Existed
In the black throat of space, words spiral,
Charred syllables drifting like moths to no flame.
Every book, every prayer, every curse
Finds its way into the bone-dust of stars.
I dream of archives stitched into the dark,
Veins of memory pulsing through nebulae—
All our hands, bloody or tender,
Catalogued in the frost of dead moons,
And liquid methane.
The universe hums like a nuclear engine,
Its shelves sagging with unsaid apologies,
Maps drawn by trembling conquerors,
The taste of fruit extinct for a thousand years.
We vanish, but the sentences remain,
Tattooed in light, spinning past the last horizon,
A chorus of vanished throats still singing,
Though no ear will ever hear them again made whole.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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