The end doesn’t roar.

It whispers, waits, and watches what you do with your last flicker of truth.

And if you’re brave enough to face it,

fear becomes the only thing gentle in the room.

When the end becomes near,  

You may start to feel fear,  

Or you may become sick,  

As the moments slowly tick.  

The flashing of time,  

Beautiful moments and grime,  

Echo through the soul.  

As your apocalypse grows.  

The fear becomes strong,  

As you cling to what you long,  

For memories you’ve cherished, 

 Aware they will inevitably perish. 

Time will soon feel,  

As if nothing is real,  

No beginning, no end, 

 Just a silent wind.  

Through fear, you will find peace,  

After the ultimate feat,  

And dwindle in age,  

Lost to your own eternal page.  

So, when the end comes,  

And you look to the sun,  

So shall you smile with cheer;  

Ghostly transparent to the now peaceful fear.