What Remains?

Some stubborn, metaphysical substrate

Must linger when everything else dissolves;

Beneath the paint, the canvas stands up straight

The Earth sits still as life on it evolves

The page or screen lies flat as words cascade

The stage sleeps while the actors strut and fret

The street does not march with the glad parade

But becoming, we all too soon forget

The vacuum should not suck up the clean floor

But what comes into being can vanish

Whole galaxies once blinked and are no more

Entropy cannot be stayed by varnish

Even the stately sonnet's formula

Three quatrains and a couplet, rightly rhymed

By dissipating, can inspire awe