The End

​

Inward drives this dreaming vision,
aimless, lost in utter confusion,
metaphysical illusion.

Declining sun - inflamed, huge and red -
marks the world's approaching end
amid the clamorous, falling dusk.

Bright star, swallowed by darkness,
your dim light is an omen,
but no phantoms beckon,
no sirens softly call,
desiring our downfall.

Night encroaches on the day,
on the realm of dull reality,
thrusts blackness on our eyes.

Evening star shines on an empty world,
and reigns in silence, it's song unsung.
Pallid moon looms low and large,
held captive, drawn closer to earth.

It is but jest, fair sport, pastime.
Laughable is our demise, the end
a swift decline, like a vapor
vanishing from view.