The libraries of volumes,
are starting to decompose
flames running across
pages of poetry and prose.
We stand back and watch, faces grim,
this is the start of the end.
The forests are starting to burn,
the oceans are starting to dry,
unbelievers are looking to heaven,
and asking God “Why?”
Why is it our job to suffer?
Why must we live in pain?
Why do we carry on living,
when it’s just to die?
Why this time, we don’t get another try?
But all chances have been wasted,
and all love has wilted,
we throw aside our morals,
and decide to be wicked.
So the children pack their bags,
and grab their parents hands,
and they travel over
new uncharted lands.
And they whisper,
“If there was a moment to be wasted,
leave it behind in the dust.
If there was a heart in your chest,
let it rot and rust.
If there was a light in your soul,
make it dim.
If there was life inside you,
**** it and begin again.”
Nov 6, 2025
Nov 6, 2025 at 7:37 PM UTC
The libraries of volumes,
are starting to decompose
flames running across
pages of poetry and prose.
We stand back and watch, faces grim,
this is the start of the end.
The forests are starting to burn,
the oceans are starting to dry,
unbelievers are looking to heaven,
and asking God “Why?”
Why is it our job to suffer?
Why must we live in pain?
Why do we carry on living,
when it’s just to die?
Why this time, we don’t get another try?
But all chances have been wasted,
and all love has wilted,
we throw aside our morals,
and decide to be wicked.
So the children pack their bags,
and grab their parents hands,
and they travel over
new uncharted lands.
And they whisper,
“If there was a moment to be wasted,
leave it behind in the dust.
If there was a heart in your chest,
let it rot and rust.
If there was a light in your soul,
make it dim.
If there was life inside you,
**** it and begin again.”