The clock dissolves into cogs, gears and rust,
A future drowned in geologic dust.
Grasping at threads of what we hoped might be,
We find our hands hold only entropy.

The massive boulder rolls, the steep hill resists,
Yet we continue pushing, our will persists.
The Reaper scoffs, still we struggle and climb—
To make our lasting mark in borrowed time.

The maps we chart with our trembling hands
Reveal a distant shore of sinking sands.
To sail this turbulent sea of endless doubt,
We steer by constellations to lead us out.

The elders speak of cycles spun,
Where endings birth what’s yet begun.
Not collapse, but the turning of a page,
To write new myths for an evolving age.

The inner flame we guard, though gales conspire,
Flickers low but refuses to expire.
To love a world that fades from view
Is both the thread we weave and knot we rue.

So let systems crumble; build with humbler stones,
Where care and not conquest, guards the wild unknowns.
To breathe, to act, to dare, to be—
Is how we break the prophecy.

We shall dance within the storm’s embrace,
With our hands that build and hearts that race.
Though foreboding shadows loom and tall cliffs draw near,
To truly live is to hope, to love, and to fear.