The end was scheduled.
The world refused.

No thunder.
No rupture.
Only the insult of continuity ~
bread baking, clocks ticking,
the stubborn weight of air.

Belief collapsed without ceremony.
Not disproved, only exposed:
how thin the tether,
how quickly people flee the ordinary
for the narcotic of catastrophe.

This was never prophecy.
It was desperation in costume.
A hunger for the world to break
so the unbearable work of living
could be declared complete.

Nothing ended.
Nothing began.
Only another day,
and the quiet disgrace
of still being here.