Forget it. You will lose you.
You will go. But the actual
Past, everything’s that’s happened,
Will only grow. The god child
That is this cosmos we know
Keeps scribbling furiously
Over and over the same
Space of paper, whatever
That is—that is, as thick lines
Pile on lines, more lines vanish
But only under others.
Do you have any idea
How much light black holes hold dear?
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