PALIMPSEST
The palimpsest of life leafs ever hastening by
Page after scouring page erasing the semblance of reality
Until only treasured memory remains.
As time effluxes each studied page
What of the final turn, when all is memory alone
And the future but a full stop?
When the tome is closed for the last time,
Is that an end, or is that full stop but a period?
Does the palimpsest rekindle like a Phoenix beyond life itself?
And is existence but a chain of causal parentheses
In a Cosmological essay still in draft?
Time will tell.
But time itself is but a period
There is then, there is now, there is yet to be
Cats cradled in a web of intersecting points
The one dependent upon the other stretching from infinity to infinity.
But is that never-to-be-attained state itself just a single point,
A closed circlet, woven by a chain of circumstance until the final weft is
warped into a scrub to wipe the palimpsest clean again?
To present an awful ... terrifying ... blank ... page.
About the Creator
Malcolm Twigg
Quirky humur underlines a lot of what I write, whether that be science fiction/fantasy or life observation. Pratchett and Douglas Adams are big influences on my writing as well as Tom Sharpe and P. G. Wodehouse. To me, humor is paramount.
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