We’re all going to die. We don’t know what’s next.
The west is burning, as if Hell itself had come to us.
The oceans are hot and that means we can’t breathe.
The oceans wash us away like Atlantis long ago.
We make enemies of each other, lords of ourselves.
We look with hate and suspicion at anything outside.
Horded with guns and canned goods up in the hills,
you’re still going to die, still going to pass on from this world.
Lines over everything, borders and haunted faces, so much fear.
All this will mean nothing, when we’ve wiped ourselves away.
We’re all going to die. We’re all cold here. We’re all weak shapes.
We’re all going to die someday, and none of this means shit.