Who gets the last laugh
when all stories end?
Who will tell our tales
when silence descends?

When life is dust and gone,
and barren lies the land,
who remains to care
when all the stories end?

Our mark upon the crust
scorched by swollen sun.
Histories dissolved,
our satellites far flung.
Just litter in the stars
when all the stories end.

The flicker of each life,
connected all at once.
Each moment deep and wide
with everything we’ve done.

Before the stories end,
matters always mattered,
for in each story’s end
another’s story gathered.

We can’t perceive the threads,
but everything’s entwined,
we’re woven into patterns
of countless unseen lines…
until the end of time,
when all the stories end.

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News got me feeling down, thinking about the end of peace, the end of human life, of all life. Figured the best way to stop that spiral is to lament it, when all the stories end and no one is left to live them, let alone share them. While the wealthy pillage the earth, indifferent to their fellow man, apathetic to the other life affected, their story too will end. Will we all follow? Will all stories end just to feed the rich?