The Last Ones

Fading dreams.
All that is left
Of the death throws of a dying race
On the surface
There is new growth
Branching out into a cold, unwelcoming world
Inside something is lost
Withering, empty
Starved of magic, and hope
So we fade from this world
Childless. Alone.
Even as the barest echos of us
Believe we thrive, born anew.
The movement is not new life
But the passing of old
One last spasm
Before the end.

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