The Entropy of Poetry

Don’t Google the future.

Hello, my name is Entropy.

I’m a measure of uncertainty.

A thermodynamic quantity,

I represent energy,

I am the unavailability.

Chaos grows with reliable inevability.

Nothing is here to stay.

Welcome to an endless universe of accelerated decay.

The lights go out and we can’t see that what we can’t see is matter after all.

If this word has got you feeling small, put on your gas mask and head out to your nearest mall. The bookstore by the foodcourt has closed. They sell weapons now and background checks are optional.

We yawn from graves while enjoying embalmed order. We drew some lines on maps and we fiercely fought for the imaginary. Entropy says that this was all just for fun. The bullets flow from the barrel of the nearest star.

The entropy of poetry is reliably the rhythm. The rising tides of space and time meet the entropy of rhyme.