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Poem



The whisper starts small.
A tremor in the familiar rhythm.
The sun, still a blaze, but with a subtle shift in hue,
a premonition clinging to the edges of the day.

We build our towers taller,
our networks wider,
convinced of our dominion,
a tapestry woven so tightly,
it cannot unravel.

But the threads are finite.
The resources, a diminishing echo.
The planet breathes, a vast organism,
and we are a fleeting fever.

Look at the bones scattered in the dust,
the silent monuments to empires crumbled,
to species vanished in the blink of geological time.
They too, once vibrated with life,
believed in their permanence.

Our ingenuity, a dazzling spark,
may not be enough against the slow, grinding gears
of cosmic indifference,
the elegant entropy of the universe.

The ice caps weep their ancient stories.
The forests sigh their last breaths.
The oceans stir with a disquieting warmth.
These are not just warnings;
they are also the early chapters of our ending.

Not a sudden cataclysm, perhaps,
but a gradual fading,
a slow dimming of the lights,
as the stage empties,
and the curtain inevitably falls.

The thought lingers, a cold knot in the gut:
not if, but when.
And what will the silence say then,
where our laughter and our striving once echoed?
A blank page in the universe's vast, unwritten book.

©bfa042325

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