The next thing you heard chilled you to your very core.
The stars die out one by one,
fizzling out
like light bulbs.
They spell the final ending.
The ending not with a bang,
but with a whisper.
A whisper not heard,
for there is nothing to hear it.
Nothing to stop it.
We do not march gracefully towards the end,
like soldiers into battle,
our lives are snuffed out instead.
Quickly
and without fanfare.
There is no one to honor us.
There is no glory.
There is only the unending cold,
for the universe is dying
and we are dying with it.
The cries of the last living; they form the tears of a dying universe.
The tears,
the tears,
the tears.
The final tears,
before all ceases to be.
The tears,
the tears,
the tears.