The last man at the end of time
must have an infinite jukebox.
The wind is dead, the stars faded,
now remain the voices of yesteryears,
vividly painting on his lonely canvas
suspended in space,
in a bar without walls.
Guitars weep to the pulse of drums
as a velvet curtain descends:
one man, a bottle of whisky
and all our accumulated dreams.
Is there a smile on that man’s face?
We gave him every comfort on that final journey.
We loved him so.
Michael Henrik Wynn
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