A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

You sleep quite deeply, but the sound may have roused you.
I imagine momentary conjecture, before you fall back into dream,
and perhaps in the morning, you have no recollection at all.
Or perhaps, the dream was so vivid that you are unsure,
but there is no debris on your morning walk, so you assume
it was a figment of the hippocampus, shrugging off the hunch
that the detonation was both real and close by. The truth is
that my demolition is no explosion. There will be no mess,
no collateral damage. Instead, the vector of destructive force
turns inward. My ruination is an implosion, a gravitational collapse
of matter and energy upon itself, a tangle of emotion so dense
that all light is trapped, and you, with your naked eye,
and your scientific knowledge that is more social and less natural,
you are unlikely to notice that one speck of light in 
your night sky is extinguished.