Young Writers Society

I'm not a leader, I've never been.

Knees to the ground and arms to the ceiling,

Convicted of a day that I was sure was drawing near.

We would go down in history as those, that rotten generation

That blocked out the sun.

And his sister, the sky, was helpess to our ceaseless minds.

This time, no one would be left to mock and tease with rational hindsight.

Reduced,

Refined,

Extinct.

Convinced we were alive.

Convinced we were right.

There is nothing left here.

False birthrights dried up this arid rock,

And time and deceit did the rest.

Circadian rhythms destroyed,

neural networks disintegrated.

Balance beaten to death as an innocent bystander.

The great era of the bipeds, no finer example of the minimum.

The great plumes of smoke herald the death of all that is,

and the Earth began to heave and groan;

As she gave up her dead.