The Date of Our Extinction


Numbered calendar square,
we pass it every year.
Ignorant. Oblivious,
to its significance
Just another day,
in a polluted sea of days.
Could have changed our ways,
but we didn’t and we won’t.
So, the clock ticks.
Two minutes to midnight;
soon a minute and a half.
Down to just one minute,
there’s no turning back.
It creeps like viscous oil,
Bittersweet bitumen.
Unhurried.
Deliberate.
Inevitable.
No prophets, no profits.
No one to govern over,
when every last
one of us
is dead.

The date of our extinction.

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