We have finally reached
the supposed year of
termination of this world;
its run-on sentence is
nearing a conclusion
that will sit to the left of
a period-

and even though I don’t believe
in this possible punctuation,
my mind wonders
about the chance of ending
our assumed everlasting situation-

Earth is aging, and so am I,
the ocean’s wrinkles reflect in the sky
and with every year, there grows
the fear of whether or
not it can stay alive-

“The weight of the world is on
my shoulders” yet we step
all over its crumbling crust
day after day, and with constant
dissatisfaction in the way
we don’t seem to appreciate
our time until our planet
turns to dust-

Rolling routines have crushed the love
for the clouds above, the ground
around us, doing the necessities until
we turn to rust-

fading what should never be forgotten,
only remembered
as we awake from
our repetitive realms of sleep-

we might even be
in too deep
to recall that
our time here
is only temporary.