The Last Eschatologist

Here we are, humanity,
An inexhaustible store
Of wonder and bottomless

Well of hate, mise en abyme,
Not only made of mirrors,
But digging a true abyss.

I was born around the time
The Ox-Herd and the Weaving
Woman get their only night

Per year to spend together,
Crossing over Sky River.
“Nothing for it now, just row.”

The world was supposed to end
That fall, but a fly fell in
The ointment of the timeline.

The end was called off for then.
It was planned to come again
And then again and again,

Like God, like the alignment
Of the planets, like Charon.
“Nothing yet, but soon. Now row.”

I begin to fear the worst
Will come to pass, and instead
Of the End, Armageddon,

Complete annihilation,
Humanity’s extinction,
It will all go on ending,

We will all go on ending
And then beginning again,
No end to the bitter end,

More and more complicated,
A longer and longer tale,
Occasionally touching,

Occasionally meeting
Over the river, turning,
“Nothing much keeps changing. Row.”