In this ending time I spell my rhyme,
Was it the time, the date, the Creator called end?
Was it prophesy that spelled our demise?
That blackened the skies?
That destroyed the land?
That drove the sea to its barren state?
Was it a trumpet call that sounded Man’s fall,
Or was the Man himself to blame?
Is it the shame of Man,
The fall of his own world?
Is Man’s own hand the weapon of his destruction?
Can one’s hands still mold redemption?
For ourselves?
For the world we live in?
Does Man not carve his own path?
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