Swollen Words about freedom leak down from above
in poetic rivulets full of colours and love.

Yet who will He sing to when the last long night unfurls
and cosmic decline erodes the canvas of this world?

Nihilism is not art, but a selfish retreat.
In the void the moon's faces are nothingness replete.

The Light reflects differently on each drop of dew.
Without it, there will be no rainbows to view.

Your palettes emptied, your quills dry as a bone:
In those final moments a vision of entropy honed.

Woe unto the artist who, for art's sake alone,
dooms all of Creation to that final bell's tone.

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Chronos, in the year 644 AF.