It’s the same. these words, lines, feelings.
Why do you stay? Why are you here?
Insignificance reeks from my bones.
Can you feel it, clouding around 26 letters?

The terminator called. They’re still here.
Still crawling. Still digging. Still spinning webs.
They’ll never leave me. But will they spread
To you? What good are my words then?

Am I helping or fanning the flames?
If one is hurt. One is lost. Is this pointless?
Im running to the edge of the galaxies.
To the edge of existence. Who’s waiting?