I open the last book on Earth,
I saw the dust of my own,
It was titled with ugly words,
And the nightmares I was shown,
At the end of my library,
Like the rest were scattered,
It was bonding with the webs,
And the little did it mattered,
I saw that last period,
While the book lying on my chest,
I was staring the ceiling,
Like I was following its behest,
I open the last book on earth,
Which forced me to glower,
I read my death in the last,
While I was dying like a wither flower.