Black Hole Poem by Jeff Taylor

Here I sit and it's 4 in the morning.
What good can come of this?

I whistled my way through
the green gulch bay
and watched as all of my dreams
drifted away.

I can barely believe
what has become of me,
and I don't know if she
sees me like I see me.

Why does this storm rage over,
and over, and over, and over,
until cover from hail and thunder
we shelter?

For all I know, the world has ceased to exist
and has decided to change into something new.
But I'm still holding onto the edge of the floorboards
over the gaping maw
and staring in awe
at the inky blackness down below.