The end of the world
will not need me.
The grief I see
will depart swiftly
when my consciousness
cease to be anything.
Death will release
the anguish I breath.

All the books that I read
will crumble like
dry brown autumn leaves.
All those man-made things
will rot, rust, or tumble.

Even our shared history
will recede into obscurity,
then further into
nothingness,
allowing space and time
to completely
forget us.