Maybe this is how the world ends,
Not huddled together, holding hands,
as a meteor races towards us.
But quarantined separately in rooms,
as a virus eats you slowly from inside.

Maybe this is how the world ends,
Not from a single gunshot to your head,
as you revolt against bullies on streets.
But from a slow drowning in your guilt,
as a voice asks you why didn’t you?

Maybe this is how the world ends,
Not from a bomb exploding in the mall,
as you buy a new summer wardrobe.
But from a slow burn deep inside you,
as you ignore the haunted eyes around.

Maybe the world doesn’t end after all,
Not from guns, bombs or stray meteors,
as you wake up to sunny blue skies.
But how will you face yourself tomorrow,
with all this death festering inside?