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Last sonnet

How many people must die under the sun

Before we find that all our blood runs red?

Soon this world will be the color of dun

And soot will fall upon our head.

The color of winter will not be white

And still you’ll not be able to feel your cheeks

The morbidity of it all will steal your delight

As you find that  death surely reeks.

There is one thing that we should know.

The world will end with a sound.

A siren will wail and you will go

Unknowingly to your death under ground

Human beings will soon be rare

But there’s nothing better to compare.