Oblivion

Here, at the end of all things.

The sun sets for the final time on any creature capable of knowing.
The last breath loosed rasping and rattling, the final simulacrum of song, without such an audience as the singer to regard it’s passing.

From here on, there will be no pondering of the worlds and their content.
Never again will a hopeful eye turn to the sky in wonder, now begins the era of a sightless galaxy.

Nowhere among the cosmos will there be song by which to dance, and no dancers for song to be heard.
The multitude of dreams and worries and memories once held so sacrosanct, now cast ethereal under the gaze of cold stars, lacking any fitting vessel to grant them some semblance of substance.

If indeed the vast machinery of the universe churns onward, no sentry shall remain to ensure it so.

As that last conscious mind retreats inward, shedding itself of all sense,
does what was remain?