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Supernovae
The seven appear before the end
to sever fated fingertips.
To pour the wine of many damned
across the final lips.
The rocks of time will crack with pain
and dusty thoughts will never rhyme,
as aged sages feel the heat
eclipse the sands of time.
The ocean life will first begone.
The soup and steam caress the lost
and mourning cries from mountain tops
when parted from the frost.
For seven minutes remain untouched.
For seven beams of light to run.
For seven seals to crack the whip
across the gap from Earth to Sun.
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