When The World Closes Its Eyes

The end won’t come with fire alone,
nor trumpet cries from skies unknown.
Not with a bang, as poets dreamed,
but slowly, softer than it seemed.

The oceans rise, not in a rage,
but inch by inch, page after page.
Ice melts in places we don't see,
while cities drown reluctantly.

The forests fall without a sound,
a billion leaves upon the ground.
The bees forget the flowers’ names,
and even silence plays no games.

We build our towers ever high,
and dig our graves beneath the sky.
We trade the stars for neon light,
then wonder why we lost the night.

The code runs cold, the circuits fade,
our screens go black, the debts unpaid.
Satellites blink, then disappear—
the final ghost of human fear.

No hero’s march, no curtain call,
just time reclaiming what we stole.
A planet breathes one final sigh,
and rolls once more beneath the sky.

Not wrath, but weariness shall end us—
not gods, but greed, our quiet fall.
The world will not burn out in fury,
but in forgetting — by us all.