(Will I Live to See) The End of the World
The silence moves through the air—heavy, electric, unnerving.
Not quite dread, not quite hope. Just a hum that sets every nerve to observing.
The wind is a stranger, carrying secrets from empty roads,
and the sun rises over ruins, where the city’s memory corrodes.
I feel it pulsing under my skin—the waiting, the ache, the question:
Is this just a long dusk, or the moment the world breaks open?
The clocks spin slower. The ground shivers, restless, old,
as if time itself is whispering: no promise is foretold.
Will the sky unravel in fire, red tongues devouring the night,
or will the cold settle quietly, snuffing the last desperate light?
Maybe I’ll watch oceans swallow the land. Maybe I’ll see the fields freeze.
Maybe the end comes in boredom—a whisper that drops us to knees.
Some imagine trumpets, thunder, a spectacle carved in stone,
but I wonder if the end slips by unnoticed, between one breath and the next breath alone.
I listen to the pulse of the planet, measure the future in breaths—
the air thick with endings, heavy with deaths no one speaks.
I walk through this ghosted city. Shattered glass. Boarded doors.
Each step echoes louder, silence expanding, stretching, soaring.
Shadows lengthen along the stone,
and regret crawls from the alleys—nobody to blame, no one to blame.
Maybe the end is just a flicker, a cough, a sigh no one hears,
or maybe a riot of fire and water, the sum of every fear.
Either way, I wonder if I’ll taste the final day—
feel the last breeze, watch the last child play.
What’s left when the city forgets itself, when every home is ash and bone?
Will I wander these empty streets, cataloging collapse alone?
Or will it all go slowly, the end mistaken for routine—
people still gossiping in line, blind to the blade suspended, the gathering machine?
I look at faces passing, denial wrapped in laughter,
a shared blindness, a secret dread for what comes after.
Do I want to witness it—the finale, the last collapse?
Or is it mercy to vanish before the final relapse?
Somewhere, thunder shakes the windows. A storm warning nobody heeds.
I think about the stories we told, all the needs we failed to meet.
The sky, bruised and burning, reflects everything we refused to learn,
yet still I scan the heavens, desperate for some signal the world might return.
I think of love lost in the static, names erased by wind and flood,
hands that once held mine, now lost to the indifferent mud.
I wonder if, when the end arrives, it will ask for my name—
or if I’ll simply dissolve, a passenger, in the closing frame.
We’re left with questions circling like birds above the dead—
is it fire that takes us, or hunger gnawing instead?
Will I stand in the aftermath, ankle-deep in abandoned dreams,
or close my eyes before the last sunrise, missing what it all means?
So I hold the silence close, listen for the world’s last tune,
and wonder if I’ll see the final page, or sleep through the black noon.
Beneath this fragile sky, on a planet trembling on its hinge,
I keep asking: will I live to see the end, or just the world unhinged?