Petulant soil, soaked in ancient ichor,
Irate, but slow to move.
Behemoth gaining momentum,
Leaving a slug-trail through the waters,
And the feathers of newly-flightless birds.
Congested death, restless spirits
Fed through a clattering chaos engine,
Electric pops, violent combustion
Pushing opulence through the air.
Perhaps it is no surprise that they have grown so bitter,
Spewing vitriol in great black clouds.
Yelling at the sky.
Should the sea turn from green
To a thicker red, with not a life left floating,
I wonder what we will feel when our bodies
Are compressed together into loamy substrates
And whoever comes next finds
New uses for us.
Trapped deep beneath the gulf shore,
Will we seethe, roiling for a chance
To show the world its carbonaceous hubris?
Or will we remain disparate, singing the softness
Of zephyr strides across wind chimes,
And folding our strengths into the gently rotating caresses
Of the slender propeller blades
Nestled just slightly offshore?
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