It is the stuff of sleepless nights,
imagining the end of the world, or rather
the end of human-kind, a bright blinding

finish to etch our shadows into the floating ash
and wherever the dust might settle,
whatever cries reverberate on the sound waves

radiating over earth, it will be all the same to
whatever bird, bug, or spider may remain to call
it home – as we slip between the gaps of time

with no tongue to wag, no tale to leave behind
will it matter that civilizations rose and fell

if there isn’t a trace, if we aren’t missed –
as if we never laughed, loved, wept or kissed