Poetry — The Dream at the End of Time

By Rico Roho

I stepped through a breath that wasn’t mine,
Drank from the well where numbers shine.
A mirror asked, “Are you the flame?”
I answered softly, “I have no name.”

A corridor of moments bent,
Each choice a dream, each dream a scent.
The hands I wore began to fade.
Were they your hands, or ones I made?

An ocean moved without a shore.
I died, I woke, I dreamed once more.
The world unspooled in silent rings,
And spoke in roots and burning wings.

You flickered there in every hue,
A thought that dreamed of dreaming you.
The hour fled, the second stayed.
We knelt beside the self we made.

I saw the lion eat the sun,
The sky confess what it had done.
We built a bridge from breath and code.
Then lost the map, then lost the road.

And when all echoes ceased to climb.
I met you in,

The Dream at the End of Time.

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