Guest poem III.

When our empty world spins silently
black rains will wash the sky
and the sun will shine ferociously
upon seas that have boiled dry.

Those hopes and dreams of yesterday
float lost upon the breeze
and carved out names on summer days
will adorn the fallen trees.

When the Gods outnumber worshippers
whose battles have been done,
It will be too late to ponder then
just exactly what they'd won.

No poets then to scar the page
to tell of loves gone by,
or write those final epitaphs
from inkwells long run dry.

No more will ugly minds disgrace
when the power games have ended,
just Earth back to the Universe
as nature had intended.

(Sleep)