Death is the final refusal.

 

It discards the giggle of time,

that beast with a stretch

the length of a universe.

 

The strong silent type of dark matter

and the blush of unfinished principles,

of critical strings.

 

Important as every heart attack there ever was,

some believe the concept

a messiah of numbers.

 

True freedom may appear as a slight vibration.

A curl in the fringe of our real

and the automatic response

of immediate reality

is to treat the theory as a threat

 

hunt it down and vanish

all signs of the new possible,

the untouched currency

of hope in high doses.

 

And if there are no strings,

no shimmering resonance,

then the wormhole

is a practical alternative

 

as long as energy gives up her sweet milk

but it's not likely.

 

However there is a seperate suggestion.

 

Maybe

death is the wormhole.

Space and time are not a platform but

a moveable surface

that follows you

into the after.

 

And before, a stasis

of placeless comfort.

Therefore,

every infant is a time traveller.

We have all ventured distances we cannot imagine.

 

And will return to our snug forms

to continue our other selves

until we succumb once again

to our fondly thought reality.

 

Ready to experience mass.

Giddy with bias and hindsight,

forgetting it all completely

for a short time.