I’m no poet. I think poetry is overly pretentious sometimes. Here goes nothing.
At world’s end, all feels fair.
lonely widows forge their will with their husbands’.
The lives, the shivers, the endless times
this spinning blue dot had.
All for nothing,
all for nothing.
Light turns to dusk, the end is at hand.
The end of everything.
These words turned to dust,
shiver down my palm.
Then I rest.
Forever, forgotten, eternal.