At the end of the world
you're all alone.
Like a rippled reflection
they all stare back.
The flesh on their face, just like yours
bloated, rotting, and of the same maker.
They mean no harm, but unlike you
They work intended.

You are a failed force of destruction
but a failed vessel of peace,
a broken cog in an otherwise flawless machine.
By his side he keeps you, wondering why
you had to be contentious enough to be mean but not enough to be meaningful.