The Apocalypse is Now

It is the moment the curtain lifts.

It was never fire from the sky.

No sudden crack of earth,

no trumpet sound or horsemen’s charge.

It came slowly—

in policies, in pipelines,

in headlines we learned to scroll past.

In oceans rising while bosses asked for overtime.

The apocalypse is not the end.

It is the moment the curtain lifts.

A Greek word, apokálypsis—

not destruction,

but unveiling.

Now we see it:

the greed dressed as governance,

the peace built on bones,

the way the world kept spinning

on the backs of the unheard.

And still—

there are people planting gardens

in poisoned soil.

People whispering poems into cracked walls.

People carrying each other

through the ash.

If this is the apocalypse,

then let it be a revelation.

Let it show us what must fall.

Let it teach us how to build

with gentler hands.

Because we are still here.

Still writing.

Still loving.

Still choosing not to disappear.

And that, too,

is a kind of survival.

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I hope this poem brings you hope—not the naive kind, but the fierce, steady kind that survives alongside grief. The kind that sees the cracks in the world and still chooses to plant something there. If you feel like everything’s falling apart, maybe that’s because it is—but maybe that’s also the moment truth begins. You are not alone in this.