When the Last War Wakes

End Times

When the Last War Wakes

At the rim of the dying world,  
where the sun bleeds out like a wounded god,  
the final war rises, "not born, but remembered"  
as if it had waited in the marrow all along.

No trumpets.  
Only the grinding of old truths breaking,  
the slow collapse of the lies we built  
to keep ourselves from seeing the void.

The combatants are familiar:  
the self that clings,  
the self that corrodes,  
the self that whispers that nothing matters  
and is almost convincing.

Shadows march where people once stood,  
carrying the weight of choices  
we pretended were harmless.  
Every regret becomes a blade.  
Every silence becomes a wound.

The world ends quietly,  
in the moment we realize  
we were the architects of our own ruin,  
that the darkness was not coming for us,  
but from us.

And when the last thought flickers,  
a single truth remains, cold and unadorned:  
the end of times is not a prophecy,  
but a mirror we were too afraid to face.

Phillozofee @ 2026