In a day where the grill won't light in the 4th of July,
And the star over the christmas tree won't shine,
Once all the knocks you heard, become an ol' stained
And wrinkled newspaper at your door,
The dust will cover it all, birds will sing a last melody,
The piano man down the street will play it's last sheet,
The cook from the 12th floor will hold an empty plate,
The plate will soon be amongst many other dishes,
The ocean will make high waves not even the daredevil would surf on,
Nor the best surfists, the sun, it will shine once more
And the sky will weep once more,
For, nevermore;
Feb 13, 2021
Feb 13, 2021 at 11:22 AM UTC
In a day where the grill won't light in the 4th of July,
And the star over the christmas tree won't shine,
Once all the knocks you heard, become an ol' stained
And wrinkled newspaper at your door,
The dust will cover it all, birds will sing a last melody,
The piano man down the street will play it's last sheet,
The cook from the 12th floor will hold an empty plate,
The plate will soon be amongst many other dishes,
The ocean will make high waves not even the daredevil would surf on,
Nor the best surfists, the sun, it will shine once more
And the sky will weep once more,
For, nevermore;
This is just a poem about the apocalypse amongst many others;
Request permission to use this poem