One Hundred Years

By Andrew R. Duckworth

I’m unsure where we’ll be
Or if we’ll be.
Perhaps our light might
burn out
After we hide it under
The last bushel basket
And make enemies with 
A final foe
Out of pure boredom
Because what other manner
Should we purge
Our rage?
Perhaps we will be so connected
That telling two apart
Is impossible,
No individual remaining,
No individual meaning,
Indistinguishable,
All the same,
All the same,
Dying to our name.
In all honesty,
I do not think we will make it
Another century.
Should we have such misfortune,
We will cease to be human,
The next logical link
In the chain
Of self-hatred.