The Edge of the Universe:

An Unbroken Cycle

Dylan T. Smith

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All motion is cyclic. It circulates to the limits of its possibilities and then

returns to its starting point.

– Robert Collier

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Table of Contents

Giving Voice to a Cycle (Foreword)/4

The Edge of the Universe/6

Reverse Entropy/7

Closed Form/8

The Retrograde of a Supernova’s Light/9

For the Melancholy Stargazer/10

The Divinity of Tears/11

Nostalgia for a Past Life/12

Throw It on Repeat/13

Open Form/14

The End of Pi/15

The First Work of Art/16

An Unmistakable Placement/17

A Cosmic Prison/18

An Ode to the Big Bang/19

And The Canvas Shall Grow/20

The Death of a Star/21

Rotating Timecards/22

Time’s Proverb to a Random Nebula/23

Will the Circle Be Unbroken?/24

Beyond the Edge/25

4

Giving Voice to a Cycle

Imagine every action, down to the blink of an eye, that has ever happened,

and will happen, has already happened. Imagine an existence bound by déjà vu.

These are the ideas I hoped to capture in the theme of The Edge of the Universe: an

Unbreakable Cycle. However, do not think I wish to restructure your beliefs; this is

not the purpose of my chapbook. I only wish to present a theory of metaphysics in

the light of science, so you may better appreciate the beautiful mysteries of our

Universe and the enigma that is life.

As the content of my poems will undoubtedly express, I have always held an

inexplicable passion for Astronomy and Physics. In part, The Edge of the Universe

seeks to illuminate the melancholy stargazer in us all. For generations, our intellect

has solicited refuge – astrological and astronomical – from a seemingly dark abyss

that, in reality, gave birth to a palette of colors unfathomable to the human eye.

Our greatest mistake assumes a pattern to be non-existent if it cannot be seen, yet

certain cycles only require a person to open his or her eyes to become visible.

Although my poems were seemingly written on identical subjects, I initially

thought an overlapping theme to be non-existent. For some time, I struggled in

making a decision on what poems to include; I had a plethora of pieces that

referenced popular science-fiction ideologies from video games and film, as well as

poems strictly related to Astronomy. At first, I tried relating both groups of poetry,

yet I could not delineate any discernible connection beyond their subject material.

Instilling an engaging theme to my chapbook grew increasingly hopeless with each

act of revision, and my patience was wearing thin.

Ironically enough, however, it was a video game, Bioshock Infinite, which

granted me the idea to completely abandon my poems in reference of video games.

Infinite’s narrative and theme expounded upon humanity’s futility of choice and a

man’s cyclical failure to redeem his past mistakes. After obsessing over Infinite’s

story and further reviewing my poems, I noticed a similar niche of theme in my

pieces commenting on the patterns of Astronomy and stellar evolution. As a result, I

solely focused on the revision of these poems to give birth to my current theme and

initial ideas for The Edge of the Universe. Therefore, I decided to structure my

poems in a manner that epitomized the lifecycle of the Universe, focusing upon the

retraction and expansion of the Big Bang as my overarching narrative and base of

thematic reference. However, I decided to further my theme beyond an organization

of literary content, and implement an obvious patterned structure by form and

pagination.

Paralleling the cyclical nature of the Universe, I intersected my free-form

poems with haikus to instill a sense of repetition and pattern. Utilizing free-form

poems as the overall meat of my chapbook allowed me to strengthen my theme

through revision, as I eliminated the fret of breaking a set form. Therefore, I was

able to explore seemingly limitless levels of language usage and revision of content

to better reflect a concise theme. My interjecting haikus also lend to this

development of theme as they act as return points from my free-form pieces. I tried

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to structure my haikus in a manner that broadened an idea introduced in the

previous free-form pieces they followed. I feel as if this notion of repetition comes

full circle in The Edge’s end, in which I seemingly break the cycle, or pattern, with

my final piece, “Beyond the Edge.”

Including “Beyond the Edge,” was my final, and arguably toughest, craft

decision, yet I feel it necessary in extending my theme to its fullest potential. As you

will you notice, this poem, which should have been a haiku by standard of pattern,

possesses only a title and no body. The edge of the Universe represents the

limitation point of expansion and existence; beyond which, lies nothing – absolute

emptiness, and the only way to go beyond the edge and break one’s cyclical

existence would be to escape the Universe, or existence, all together. I included

“Beyond the Edge” to act as an answer to the poem preceding it, “Will the Circle Be

Unbroken,” in which I propose the idea that the Universe’s cycle may not be eternal

and possibly vulnerable to change.

This final, blank poem answers The Edge’s core query with a final query:

what is left, a blank existence or a blank slate? I hope you approach The Edge’s edge,

with curiosity and leave with a personalized picture that captures the Universe’s

beauty and mystery.

The following poems do not present a question of faith, yet rather a question

of fate.

*****

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The Edge of the Universe

The last star,

the final heartbeat of matter,

silently whispers beyond the void,

awaiting the reply,

of cold lips –

in absolute silence.

The last crux before expiration,

the final curve,

in a cycle of destruction,

listens intently,

awaiting the cue,

for another eternity’s end.

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Reverse Entropy

The last star halts, caught

time reverses expansion,

backward we fall, caught.

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Closed Form

Nor flight, nor fall,

A butterfly –

suspended without squall –

never drowned in the slices of air,

in its moment of awe.

For time now halts,

the gaiety of life.

Children cut short –

in a stifled light.

Half-cocked smiles –

never fade,

will only twist,

in an inverse gaze.

Looking onward, yet holding back –

a step,

a crawl,

the time’s track.

If a butterfly flapped its wings,

it matters not,

for it is frozen,

or dead –

caught in a fool’s plot.

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The Retrograde of a Supernova’s Light

Gone, yet persistent,

died, dying, will die – mock time,

one day, die no more?

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For the Melancholy Stargazer

Forgotten time nudges an elderly gazer,

from his perch, in a quiet meadow.

Tucking the sky’s veil,

away in a capped telescope,

he hangs his head,

through the dew-splashed ferns.

Afraid of looking up,

afraid of returning to an empty bed.

Friends passed on, distantly

released into a new schedule,

have abandoned the hefty man,

yet to reach the edge.

The final star crashes over the horizon,

a booming whisper amongst shouts,

another silent death – come full circle.

A smile carves the man’s sore expression,

triumphantly with a new rite of passage.

His first love, lie, drink of alcohol,

have all passed, and been forgotten.

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The Divinity of Tears

Space – lonely angel,

day & night, life & death – mourns,

each loss with violence.

.

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Nostalgia for a Past Life

I feel removed, disconnected

from this narrative –

similar to the rest,

always ending rather flat.

Except one,

I remember a soft hum,

of plasma engines,

vibrating through chrome floors,

embracing my spine,

with stricken fingers of a tuning fork.

I remember the stars,

new worlds, already visited

I remember an old narrative,

that was my new life,

that is always turning.

I remember an inexplicable theme,

that found root in Hinduism,

reincarnated from a past life.

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Throw It on Repeat

A star forgotten,

turns afresh chaotic leaves,

for a new season.

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Open Form

Everlasting – always expanding,

time’s schedule is never late,

never stops, never fades.

Persists through death,

shakes the hand of extinction –

for they have always been associates.

Their business –

monopolizing on the illusion of control.

We, all life –

their consumers,

buying into their unhappy scheme,

clench hold of our pennies with violence.

Children always laughing,

continue the trend in dementia –

old timers.

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The End of Pi

Will you never cease?

Unfathomable, like time

forever constant.

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The First Work of Art

With the tamed fury, only a painter knows,

from wrist to brush stroke,

the first stars were spackled.

Shaded in chaos,

infinite half-lives and supernovae,

the color of life, eventually bled,

weaving across canvas.

Each droplet shed,

articulated time’s masterpiece.

We were born into an enigma, with certainty –

curious as to how, yet not why.

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An Unmistakable Placement

Between arms we lie,

embraced by the Milky Way,

offspring of design.

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A Cosmic Prison

Grounded

Gazing

Stars

Awaiting

Shuttles

Flying

Here

I’m

Lying

Earth

Dirt

Here

I

Hurt

Old

Lies

Same

Life

Lost

Not

Found

Here

I’m

Bound

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An Ode to the Big Bang

From a single point,

we came and always return,

we cannot escape.

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And the Canvas Shall Grow

Passed from an outstretched palm,

into the horizon’s meadow,

the star shatters into a majestic flicker,

soon replaced by billions more –

only cracked, but nearing the brink of suicide,

still joyful to watch,

capable to remember.

The evening’s hues:

royal plums, ornate roses, and boiled honeys,

dripping – streaking from the Painter’s brush,

finally mix into the growing black of night.

Sunset has passed.

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The Death of a Star

Blown through the void’s straw,

lethal dose of perfection –

balance kept through death.

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Rotating Timecards

A gentle breeze drowns the fleeting rays of sunlight,

from a city skyline – plunging downward,

siphoning through apartment windows,

grasping at shuddering necks,

the exhausted workforce that is humanity.

They hold onto the day’s end –

knuckles clenched,

trying to forget tomorrow,

as the blanket of stars overhead,

slowly unweaves into sunrise –

a perpetual gear of a clock’s wind.

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Time’s Proverb to a Random Nebula

Refuse and believe.

Your fate, you cannot escape.

Belief is futile.

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Will the Circle Be Unbroken?

Standing once erect in our glorious reign,

we now fade into the Heavens,

more and more,

with each passing year,

hour,

day,

second.

Hush, can’t you hear it?

The silent whisper,

of absolute silence.

The clock’s slowing tick,

and faded tock, intertwining.

Swept under Time’s rug,

hidden so, to avoid revelation

that our illusion of choice,

keeps us complacent.

Behind a door we cannot see,

eye pressed to keyhole,

the answer will always be.

A pattern in the grain,

if we could only read,

the mind’s humility is stained,

over cosmic seas, we will always be.

For we have sailed this horizon,

witnessed its retraction,

marveled its expansion.

Time and time again,

we are reset – rewound,

by a lighthouse’s beacon.

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Beyond the Edge