Wandering amongst the tomes of

The Museum of Four in the Morning,

Weaving my way into an altogether different story;

I am sleepless, restless, reckless.

The clock strikes the hour,

And the end of time comes and goes,

A starship that, having found the edge of the universe,

Does not dare to venture over its edge,

Does not try to peer into the further horizon,

Does not even attempt to gaze into the great abyss,

For fear of the vast emptiness watching you

Watching it.


Published by


A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s