HOWL, BEYOND THE FABRIC OF CLOCKWORK GODS

For the unravelers of cosmic thread

I saw the fabric of reality unspooling in the static of dead stars,
clocks melting like Dali’s dreams in the fever-sweat of relativity,
Einstein’s ghost howling equations into the quantum foam,
entropy’s teeth gnawing at the bones of order, time’s arrow rusted
but relentless, piercing the veil of every certainty—

who traced the sinews of spacetime with trembling fingers,
who measured infinity in Planck lengths and wept,
who fucked Schrödinger’s cat in the limbo of superposition,
who dissolved into pixelated dust in the hologram’s glare,
who kissed the void and found it tasted of microwave static—

Cold equations! Cold equations! The universe a tax accountant
balancing its ledgers in the dark, heat death grinning
like a landlord at the end of all leases, black holes
sucking the marrow from light’s bones, quantum fields
vibrating hymns to the nothing that birthed them—

What sphinx of entropy demands we solve its riddle
as we spin toward dispersion? What god stitches fate
into the loom of causality, then burns the thread?
I feel the pulse of neutrinos in my veins, the scream
of quasars in my gut, my DNA a relic of dead stars
shouting into the vacuum—we were here, we were here—

And the prophets! The mad ones who mapped multiverses
on napkins in greasy diners, who fucked in particle accelerators,
who traded flesh for Fourier transforms, who drank espresso
with Boltzmann’s ghost and argued thermodynamics at dawn—
their minds supernovas collapsing into singularities of why?

The cosmos is a fugue of transient knots—
atoms that cling for a breath, then scatter like roaches
when the light clicks on. Entanglement’s lonely hearts
whispering secrets across light-years, forever divorced
by the speed of light’s divorce papers.

And yet—the heat death comes, yes, but tonight
your hand in mine is a local maximum of order,
a pocket of rebellion against the tide.
We are brief. We are flame.
We are the universe’s fever-dream of itself,
howling into the infinite static—
more, more, more—
until the last proton decays, and the poem
writes itself into oblivion’s mouth.