Entropy (Work In Progress) Poem by Paul Wilson

Below the blow bell
By the sixty, or more
Ticks on the dial
Of the face of the clock
Awaiting the signal
To swarm, cluster together
And follow the rays
In the race to the centre
To strike from the black hollow
Of an absent pulse
Time's echo in a chime
For a dandelion hour.

This is the race
To the centre, to death
All knowledge, all power
Accrue to the winner
The welcoming crowds wait
With garlands to shower him
And accolades reward him
To each one his due.

But the deaf, blind bailiff
Has swallowed his transmitter
And his Geiger emitter
Mute, arms angled crazily
Face buckled and skewed
Stands in idiot silence
While the menacing throng
Gather once more around him
Summon the sheriff to burn him
On the pylon to hang him
The isotope
Of an unknown law