We live as if we were immune to extinction,
though evidence indicates the opposite to be true,
with traces of all those who came before us,
bones lying buried beneath our feet.
When our end comes will it be with a bang like the beginning?
Perhaps a plague, or pestilence will wipe our slate clean.
Will a quartet of horsemen be involved in any way,
or will we just dwindle down, leaving one at a time,
starved of light as our sun grows cold?
Then when time has passed and we too lie buried,
deep below the surface, hidden from sight,
will we be diamonds? Will we be the fuel,
that propels our replacements,
mindlessly toward their own doom?
Writing 201: Poetry Assignment 10
Prompt: Future, Form: Sonnet, Device: Chiasmus
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