No earth. No trees.
No trees. No pulp.
No pulp. No paper –
for poets to sculpt.
.
No earth. No home.
Nowhere to roam.
No time left to moan and groan.
No one wants to die alone.
.
No one wants this to be.
This to be the world’s last poem.
~*~
Sck062415
This is absolutely impressive! Completely heartbreaking, congratulations!
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