the last vestiges of the biosphere flicker out and die
like lightning bugs who lost their luminescence
and the city lights burn with the fauna around them
as the earth loses what once was its essence
the flowers wilt like dead embers in the inferno of hell
the leaves fall to the ground in a colorful cacophony
the grass turns yellow and the sky sickly gray
in the end of life's cosmic symphony
is earth unique in this galactic neighborhood of ours?
are any other planets out there alive?
were we really self-destructive and greedy, lacking morals
or just another animal trying to survive?
is there a justification for the death of all life?
a silver lining in the end of days?
will the end times destroy the light we once knew
or enrapture us all in a biblical way?
is it our fault, this great apocalypse on earth
this end of the end of it all?
or is it the death of a life that's already been lived
a slow and inevitable fall?
is it simple and measurable and easy to watch
a mere consequence of the law of entropy?
is it the decay of a universe bound by spacetime
by the laws and the faults of our very reality?
or is it quick and hastily written like a poem left unfinished
like a stanza without rhymes that breaks the entire pattern
like a rising sense of panic and bile in your throat
like sentences that no longer follow a rhythm
like a phrase suddenly cut—
With a comma that's supposed to say there's more to see but then there's not,
was it the fault of the writers of our human history?
or the nature of their constrictive genre of work?