By Aubrey Clyburn
I'm studying a lot of iambic pentameter right now + climate strikes = the following.
the earth will turn long after we are gone.
the last half-choking whisper having hushed,
a silence warm and soft as smoke alights
and clocks, now useless, halt their dogged march
to gaze upon the wreckage for a spell:
a field all trashed with metal skeletons,
a lonely beach awash in plastic ghosts,
a ghost-town-city drenched in poison haze;
all fallen quiet as the dusty moon.
then barely moving, not to break the hush,
in case a lurking foe still lies in wait,
worn gaia steals a furtive look around
and whispers, just a whistle, “are they gone?”
she shudders, shifting shoulders, breaking boulders;
the lichens creep across her battle wounds,
reclaiming all the ground we once staked ours;
and time rubbles the last of the skyscrapers
till industry fades to a banished dream.
we will be fossils stratified in rock
while new mosquitoes greet another day.
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