The Last

The last poet continued to write as the world crumbled to dust
The last bombs had fallen long ago and the sun no longer shone
Slow death and starvation had taken the bulk of the population
The crops and plants failed
What else to do but write
There was no way to set this right
No tomorrow is another day nor movie ending
He didn’t know he was the last poet
That when the ribbon of inspiration in him ceased
The world would be a darker place
He just wrote
With no ambition nor illusion of an audience to see nor read
He wrote what he felt
And he carried on until his skeleton thin hands no longer had the strength to write
And the world
Was left
Quiet