Quite soon the sun erupts a solar flare
So vast that all our electronics fry.
That day, all words in cyberspace will die
my poetry included. Everywhere
will flood when half an island goes kersplash
and all our libraries will turn to pulp
and paper mache. And the seas will gulp
and hiccup methane gas, and in a flash
we’ll either choke or burn and every word
we uttered dies. The glass towers and the steel
bridges and statues melt and then congeal
to puddles, ashes, The last thing we heard,
If we were lucky, ‘love’ which lasts as long
as things more permanent that seemed so strong.