Whispers Before Oblivion

Humans,

the species that laughed at gravity,

that tried to cage rivers,

chain volcanoes,

and bottle the wind.

You wore arrogance like armor,

vanity like a crown,

while the earth sharpened its teeth

on mountains you thought you could conquer.

Oceans swallowed continents whole,

winds shredded cities like paper dolls,

and you screamed at the storms,

thinking prayers or chants

could bribe the skies.

Forests roared in fire,

skies vomited ash,

your towers of ambition

melted into delicate confetti,

your vanity bleeding from every crack.

You carved laws to bind the wind,

whispered charms to hush the rain,

offered sacrifices to calm the sun,

all useless.

All gloriously useless.

Nuclear weapons fizzled like wet matches.

Armies with guns and grenades drowned in puddles.

Poets, kings, prophets, 

puppets dangling from the universe’s fingers,

flung into cosmic dust

for eternity’s amusement.

When the last city drowns,

the last forest burns,

the last human whispers to the moon,

nature will host a banquet

of stone, ash, and human flesh,

chewing through our monuments

while laughing in tongues no god can translate.

Your hubris, once a crown,

becomes the garnish on the feast,

your screams, seasoning for the apocalypse.

You thought you were the apex,

the masters of the play,

but forces of nature only let you

audition for the punchline.

You were never in charge.

Never special.

Merely meat in a theater of inevitability,

dancing on the strings of entropy.

And still, you build, scheme, pray, 

while the cosmos rehearses its next purge. 

Because truth be told, 

the universe doesn’t care

if you live, scream, or die.

You were never a god.

You were never the apex.

You were never anything

but an accidental coincidence.

And now

you’re just appetizers 

before lunch.