"the world will end not with a bang, but with a whimper."

i say,
the world,
will end in war --
when man's greed becomes flames under his touch,
and he can no longer keep it in the palm of his hand.
for human hands were never meant to hold the weight of disasters,
and neither were they made to hold a gun or a blade.

i say,
the world,
will end in battle --
when land turns against land,
brother against brother,
for ideas would run thicker than blood,
though nothing could rival blood's flowing abundance.

i say,
the world,
will end in victory.
when the only salvation is a purge, though the hammer will not fall under the touch of man, for he is too self-preserving;
but under the pull of the earth.

when she takes matters into her two palms, polarized and unpretty.
she will rip herself into pieces,
she will tear herself from the core,
she will burn in her own flames.

but she,
she will emerge victorious over her own children.
she will cleanse herself, she will be made pure again.
she will rise from the red waters of her own shredded veins,
and she will eat men like air.

she will be reborn.
she will win.

you did to me what autumn does to spring;
now we stay as dead as winter,
as silent as night.
your touch has left carnage,
your letters, fresh wounds.
and I, am decaying into a dead tree --
still standing,
but not breathing.
**I am emptied of all life.