In the decayed library,
at the faded end of time.
After the comets crashed,
buildings crumbled
to rubble and rust.
The seas turned to blood,
the books now just dust.
Except for one.
The story of us.
That paper brick
lasted longer
than any song.
Longer
than any television broadcast.
Longer than any clock.
The ticks stopped
at 11 on the dot,
marking the hour
that time finally collapsed,
but words still sprinted
across its pages,
print slightly faded,
but they still spread their ink.
They said
that there will
always be a story.
Our pages are saved,
our histories,
our glories.
Our bad days.
Every moment
in between.
Written in the
fine parchment of time.
Those paper bricks did more
than build towers to the sky,
they did more than plant foundations,
or cause division on maps of lies.
They told our human plight.
The constant struggle.
The fight and flight.
They taught us wrongs from right.
Guiding hands when
pathways seemed out of sight,
and they will live long
into eternity’s everlasting night.
Thanks for reading
Please take a few moments
to check out my new book "Poetic Outlaw"
available from Amazon
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CVQ5F9K8/
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