Poetry: Architects of Apocalypse

I dreamt the world’s end — a slow unfolding,

Not abrupt, but meticulous,

Crafted by human hands.

They turned on each other first,

Committing genocide as we stood by,

Witnessing throats slit, neighbors fall.

Parents unable to bury their children,

Both crumpled in forced submission, lifeless,

Their existence reduced to desperate survival,

A futile grasp for life, unreached.

In my dream, they came for us,

And what could we do?

Action foreign, eyes averted.

We had only ever been watchers of fate.

When they came, no one bore witness to our demise,

No eyes met ours, for none were left.

We were gun sellers held at gunpoint,

What had we done?

What had we unleashed?

Perhaps we are the architects

Of this world’s undoing.

I awoke, no solace found,

No transition,

No change from dream to reality.

I awoke to a world still unraveling,

Playing out in front of our eyes — real time apocalypse.

We passively observe,

Always believing it’ll be us tomorrow and someone else today.