Silence sits heavy in the air around me,
Light whispers flitter above my head,
Studiers in the corner and writers on computers,
It almost sounds like sleeping or waking the dead.
A dreamer at his desk, maybe he is dead,
          His dream is peaceful and mislead.

And still, we sit here, with books lain amuss.
They have claimed this desk their newfound bed.
And so they stare at me, waiting to be opened,
Wanting to be peeked at, or better yet, read.
A story to be read, but the ending I dread,
          The ending where we are all dead.

An ending like such deserves no better from I
But sadly, these endings are published and read.
And who's not to say their words are not true?
A prophet? Yes, it might be - the story we all dread -
the book in which it is not pretty, but red.
          The ending for the dead.