Poem By Ayn Timmerman

One hundred years from now,
we will probably all be ash
drifting across the landscape.

When I picture earth for
my grandchildren, fire death,
and ruin
are the only things to be
certain of.

Green will be a memory,
life devoid of higher purpose,
lonely scavengers sort
through the rubble of man.

All of this is certain.
until the last ray of sun
disappears behind the haze,
and the final apocalyptic curse
is uttered from between cracked lips.

Heavy clouds will flood the world,
washing away the filth,
clearing the way for a new age,
all at the press of a button.

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