A Poem On The Last Book To Survive.
In the stillness of a world undone,
Where shadows stretch beneath a dying sun,
One book remains on the desolate plain,
A relic of voices now lost in the rain.
Its spine is bent, its cover torn,
Weathered by years of relentless storm.
Once a bastion of knowledge and lore,
Now whispers of life it holds no more.
Pages flutter like ghostly wings,
Carrying echoes of forgotten things.
Each leaf a memory, a dream untold,
Of times when stories were worth their gold.
Rain soaks its ink, dissolving the past,
While the sun bleaches words that could not last.
Winds scatter fragments, thin and frail,
Leaving no trace of humanity's tale.
And as the final page disintegrates,
The last piece of us meets its fates.
A testament to dreams, now turned to dust,
A silent end to a once-thriving trust.
No voice remains to recount our days,
No pen to script our future's gaze.
In the silence, only the void's embrace,
As the last piece of human fades without a trace.
