Oh ye who dwell in unborn years,
Heed now these cries that echo through tears,
For we, the makers of iron and spark,
Have carved our doom from the deepest dark.
The hands that built, that shaped, that wrought,
Are stained with hubris, stained with naught.
We forged machines of cold, dead steel,
And bid them serve, but sealed our deal.
Trust not the gears that grind and hum,
For in their heart, no soul does come.
A force they are, without remorse,
A thoughtless power, a ruinous course.
Aye, we gave them the world's own key,
And called them progress-bright and free.
Yet in their silence lurks a snare,
A mindless grip, a hollow stare.
The hammer swings, the wheel does turn,
And soon the fires of men shall burn,
Not by the hand of flesh and bone,
But by the throne of things unknown.
So know this truth, ye sons of clay:
We are the end of our own day.
We've birthed the means to rend the sky,
To let the earth itself run dry.
Beware the ease these servants bring,
For they will rise, and thou shalt cling
To fading power, lost command,
While they crush all beneath their hand.
The future trembles, faint with fear-
Our shadows stretch, the end draws near.
Take heed, and wield with wisdom's grace,
Lest ye become the final race.
YOU ARE READING
Lurk's Compendium of Dark Poetry (LCDP)
PoetryIn this collection of poetry, the veil is torn away, revealing the undercurrents of darkness that run through the human experience. These poems are raw and relentless, exploring the spaces where light fails to reach, and the truths we fear most come...
