Evan Gilbert
Brilliant thoughts, trapped in a vast,
yet small web of neurons.
Axon sheaths are prison bars,
rattling with every want to write.
Cells decay, memory fades,
the thoughts remain bound,
their spirits cracked, broken,
and forgotten to time.
Flesh decomposes, bone rots away,
thoughts lay buried with the body
six feet beneath the soil,
never to see the light of day.
The Sun burns, the Earth crumbles,
the universe reaches heat death.
And finally, floating in nothing,
the thought speaks:
“Now I can finally begin!”