Poincare

 

The cold envelope of day arrived,

Before the waking hours it had malingered not wishing to break.

 

An invisible blade separated the confines of its containment,

Slowly all the events it bore spilled into being.

 

Its contents multiplied and diminished in equal measure,

It delivered and received with both joy and sorrow.

 

Those subjected to its presence being captive to the great unravelling

Neither flinched or submitted, they simply absorbed themselves.

 

The heavenly body it arrived upon dissolved to darkness,

Carrying everything and nothing away in its void. 

 

All that was, still was. All that had been, had been.

Everything had changed, everything was the same.

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