Broken fire-red fingers

claw to a distantly fading morning –

the desperate scramble

to escape a crumbling ruin:

Night.

A vacuous event horizon,

exponential in pointing to collapse –

that critical moment

of an in-folding probability:

Black.

Hawks propose plausible flights of fancy

until their negation by uproarious hunter shouts –

their lofty tangents

crashing under gravity’s wrath:

Dead.

Earthbound on a spiral string

the final turbulent moments expand into chaos –

remembering the future

in a blood red singularity:

Nothing.