Still Birth


In the end
all that matters
is the final poem
that pours forth
from the last lips
left living on earth
as the black smog

It matters not
that no one will survive to read the words.

It matters only
that they were written,
that they were felt,
that they were experienced,
that they were born…

This poem originally appeared at the poetry site Dead Snakes earlier this year.

As I was searching Google looking for an image to post with this piece, I typed in the words “the end.” After looking at about fifty different versions, the word “end” began to look very funny to me. I’ll never be able to look at it the same. I think there’s something subtly significant about that statement in an existential sort of way, but I’ll be damned if I can figure it out right now.

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