An Eschaton

He dreamt:

This hulk, this monstrous bygone them, which drags its listing ass, adrift, alone with loneliness.

But down to every thread of gristle, he wished to gather in his fist the miles and miles of arteries and veins in him and fling this missile into stains bloodily tentacular, believing then, and only then, in conning such spaghetti, would she have a picture, verisimilar, of his extremity.

He:

“Here, before I cross the bar, I swear I’ll topple every jar
of beshitted dreamers’ beshitted dreams.

Those turds hotly rotting, stillborn of feverish ambits; it will as I say! So be it.”

So was it?