Apocalypse of Relief

No alarms sound,
no great shattering,
just a slow unthreading
of the noise we once called living.

The oceans keep their rhythm,
unbothered by our absence.
Mountains have forgotten our names—
even the sky exhales
to carry the clean weather again.

What remains is a hush
so complete it feels holy;
a final mercy,
a soft closing of the world’s eyelids.

Yet somewhere,
in the dust we leave behind,
a gentle wind lifts,
searching for anything
that still remembers
how to speak our history.