End Of The World

The end of the world, they whisper, is the day we forget,

The sun setting not in fire but in silence,

Stars winking out like old memories,

Clouds dissolving into an indifferent sky.

It's the clock's hands folding inward,

Time no longer marching but slipping,

The symphony of life reduced to echoes,

Footsteps fading in an empty hall.

Yet at fifty, I find the truth in bones,

The ache that whispers secrets,

The need for warmth starting in the knees,

A reminder of the journeys taken, 

And those yet to begin.

It's the heart, still strong despite the years,

Beating against the quiet,

A defiant drum in a still night,

Carrying the echoes of laughter, 

And the promise of another dawn.