Words: Caitlin Bratby (she/her)
I worry about the end.
The scarlet and orange of our star’s ruthless plight
will rain down and extinguish everything from sight.
Heat will peel the skin from bones as we keep shoving
ourselves into consuming smoke
that blackens lungs.
I worry about the end.
The oceans, having chosen their merciless path,
will rise above us and unleash its compelled wrath.
Its water drowns while self-inflicted waves beat us
under the tide, accountable it will hold us.
I worry about the end.
The worry is inside me, a paralysing beast,
It gnaws and festers and decays and feasts.
I know of this imminent inevitable
Yet I am made to go on, to continue, to live.
But why do I worry so much about the end?
What is a story without an ending?
What is a life without its death?
Death is our purpose and our purpose defines us
and that fear of death is what always connects us.
I used to worry about the end, but
if the worst thing imaginable happens, it will.
The sun will expand or our peaceful world will still,
Mountains will become sand, land will become seabed,
and the worried thoughts will be driven out of my head.
The giving ground that feeds us could swallow us whole,
The whispering waves not leaving behind a soul,
Stars will return to stardust, having fulfilled their role.
Our limited, illuminating time on Earth
is filled with moments of love, joy, sadness, and mirth.
Why should we spend even a second of it
worrying?
