This is the Morning

By three, I'll be half-crazy with anticipation.
I like knowing things that nobody else does.
That's why I haven't breathed a word of this to anyone.
Today the world will end.
How?
We will be ripped to infinitesimal shreds by werewolves of neon light.
Big hulking things like you see when you rub your eyes too hard.
They'll come from between things,
like a cut opened on a prizefighter's forehead.
And they'll be a swarm on us.
Little minotaurs breaking us up atom by atom,
they'll shake us free of our hold on life.
Some of us will be spared.
The ones that don't mind skulking where they've always been:
between things.
We'll be turned to the darkness that holds nothing in its place.
We will be the great soup of night.
And even black holes will burn brighter and hotter than we.