The End Poems - Poems about The End

cursive letters pale fade into weathered parchment— they were stories once....

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Let Me Say My Goodbyes At the End of a Long Summer's Day Let me say my Goodbyes at the end of a long Summer's day, When the light lays long and the breeze is soft When the wheeling birds hold the sky aloft While the Summer's sweet warmth still holds its sway, While the Sun's strong magic yet stills...

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Verse 1- Pick up the present put the past down, with the future in the front it makes sense now, ain't no time for getting past this, put the finger to the trigger with no witneas, if this is life I won't miss it, coming off the press like I'm a misprint, the barrel getting...

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First crack in the wall, The long unraveling starts, Twilight's early hush ©bfa051725 ...

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The end of everything The master of the old tank ship that resembled a schooner sat fretting in his cabin; for twenty years, he had been the master of the vessel, a friendship between the animate and the inanimate had developed. During the war years, the ship delivered high-octane plane fuel from the USA to Britain, with him on the bridge...

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What would we all say If the world would end in a few minutes Gaze at the stars And wonder who put them up there Point at the clouds And guess how long they've been there Pick a flower or too And bask in its fragrance Run through the grass field Feeling the breeze rush past you Apologize to the earth For...

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It’s Sunday, and I’m drawing myself again, third time this week. This version features a haunted air fryer, a coupon for free emotional labor, and Janice— the shoebill, wearing my ex’s hoodie and threatening the moon. She’s perched on a folding chair I stole from a church basement, clutching a Slim Jim like a relic. Her breath smells like copper wiring and vengeance. She doesn’t blink. She’s...

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This house has it’s walls, All so paper thin, One more line of dialogue, And I might just cave in, My head is so thick, But yet so thin, I don’t have a pool, But yet I might dive in, Filling my head with all that is old, I’d rather see what is new, Than what’s full of rust and dust, I read another line, It’s...

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In shadows cast on crumbling walls, A world once vibrant, now enthralls. Sunset's blaze, a final dance, As echoes fade, in apocalyptic trance. Whispers of winds through barren lands, Silent cries on shifting sands. A symphony of chaos, nature's last breath, Embracing demise, the dance of death. Stars extinguished, night's canvas bare, Moon weeps softly, a lone despair. Cities echo ghostly tales, As the end unfurls,...

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For Angela Voras- Hills As work inches along the highway you’ll be standing next to a field the breeze a song only you’ll hear as it whispers but you remember life’s a song your life a collage of all the experiences your heart holds such joy to behold as the season passes as the passing sun bleeds into the sky as the...

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After Angella Voras-Hills fallen green apples here and there at a dead end, the yard is where in the story lies an ending, the life I lead an illusion a collage along the road of broken houses bathed in light a quiet moment, a lament when the day bleeds into colors and all my realities and dreams connect There is an illusion of light...

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He died in a whisper alone in its presence The call of death weaker than what he’d been told Wading into its shallows each step took him deeper Reluctance and acceptance both swimming in turn Each voice every motion he passed toward the bottom The pressure of choosing now drifting away In denial and waiting the past floating above him But the end of its shouting — had finally begun (Dreamsleep: May, 2025) ...

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it is a nightmare and a terrible place a confrontation, a quick draw, frightful conclusion glass: empty of illusion a pagan deity whose hard eyes shall drink you in and spit and run over you like an obnoxious lorry or through you as a plough at this abandoned carnival marooned in the undesirable wilds and...

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The cacophony never lasted long we always found new variations to the same ancient music. If at times a sobering truth impelled us to acknowledge, that the opus of our works was merely a divertimenti, played by a band of blind mice, we still believed, in that grand symphonic final. It is reassuring to know, we can still whistle a broken melody, as a concert hall empties...

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You tied the noose that I hang from I stare at the writing on the wall I feel like all the words are written wrong My feet can’t find the stall I wish my thoughts would just be gone I am the rope in which they tie I can’t seem to shape the future of my life Got me thinking am I...

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