This short poem blends particle-physics imagery with cosmological melancholy, carrying the reader from the bustle of the Large Hadron Collider to the cold stillness of the universe's end. Maxwell's demon is used as a metaphor for microscopic selection and the illusion of immortality. A Bukowski epigraph—"There’s music in everything, even defeat"—frames the piece, which closes on a lone oboe that ultimately falls silent.
When Colliders Sing: Maxwell’s Demon and the Music of the Universe’s Heat Death
A compact, lyrical poem that fuses particle-physics imagery with a cosmological hush. It moves from lab collisions and charm quarks to Maxwell's demon as a metaphorical gatekeeper, closing on the universe's last cold silence.
Lab-coated voyeurs collide and scatter.
Protons bloom — one nanosecond, two.
Lace webs sprout; charm quarks grin like Cheshire cats.
Maxwell’s demon bars a door too tiny for any of us to see;
he lets swift atoms slip from B to A,
their slower cousins drift from A back to B.
Exclusion, so small a price to pay for the promise of immortality.
“There’s music in everything, even defeat.” — Charles Bukowski
The last ember of a star goes dark.
Every atom freezes at absolute zero.
A mournful oboe lingers, then falters —
stops.
This version preserves the poem's scientific imagery while clarifying rhythm and punctuation for smoother reading. The Bukowski epigraph frames the elegiac close: a single instrument, and then silence.
