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Today was the end of my life,
yet tomorrow I see all.

I am a rocket creature      /      My bones lie melted,

in the forest, the trees are  /   tire tracks which scar my mangled body:

my landing strip. No better     \    flesh and bones and

sanctuary than this     /          humanitarian malice.

God-given world,             /       Betrayal by the ones we preceded,

untouched; delicate arboretum    \      metal glowing eyes above,

Palm fronds— my blankets and    \    screaming rubber wheels,


everlasting life felt through the wind in my fur.


Anti-anthropomorphic heaven,     /     throat charred of secondhand;

  I take   /   the blood of my posterity stained

green for granted. She     \   sees the world I am at the mercy of,

     who does not belong to me,      \      I am a slave to what he wants

yet I am a microscopic essentialist     /    and a blink of robotic velocity

                        to her                   /           in which I cannot keep up.


Born of Gaia and a martyr of Growth.
A poem about the perspective of industrialization from road ****… a squirrel probably… read both sides individually or together.
We are drowning
not in water, but in silence,
each breath swallowed,
a hollow echo of what once was.

The sky forgets the blue it once wore,
now draped in smoke-thick sighs,
the wind hums of almosts and befores,
while hope slips away beneath the tides.

And the sun, now too tired to fight,
bleeds light into a sea that won’t remember,
its warmth wearing down
dying like a goodbye that came too soon.

Islands reach, grasping for air, for mercy,
fingers of earth, worn down by our neglect,
their shadows stretch, long and desperate,
suffocating beneath the weight of what we chose to ignore.

Plastic ghosts cling to the shorelines,
whispering lullabies in a language
we refuse to understand,
as they slowly choke on the promises we broke.

Every wave folds a secret into itself,
ice that cracks beneath the weight of silence,
echoes of futures we threw away,
suffocated by the choices we refuse to face.

Like writing a book where the plot is clear,  
yet still, you're caught by the ending,
the ending you could have rewritten
but chose instead to leave as it was.



We carve comfort into the sea’s bones,
etching “it’s fine” into rising tides,
yet every flood speaks what we won’t
this silence isn’t survival, it’s surrender.



(and here is a haiku based off of that <3)

I watch and I wait,
thinking it is not my fight
the tide swallows time.

we thought the sea's fate
was never ours to carry,
so we let it sink.

Footprints on wet sand,
washed away before I move
was I ever here?
This is a poem about the enviroment and global warming
ZS Dec 2023
Mother Gaia is crying

Her tears kiss my skin as I
pollute my lungs on the porch
in a T shirt
She should be twirling
this time of year

all white-flake
wonder-eyes
fierce, cold
unapologetic skies

but we’ve been polluting Her lungs
for years
and so She cries —
warm, December rain
while I smoke
on my porch  

in a t shirt
Ignatius Hosiana Jun 2023
Gently she raised her dress, revealing where the axe struck the tree,
"Here, a forest once thrived," she whispered solemnly,
Then came the scars, pathways for plastics to reach the sea,
Regret's sewage flowing through springs, an unwanted decree.

Landmines left pockmarks on her face, remnants of war's blight,
Awaiting the innocent, seeking to maim and to ignite,
Deep incisions from perilous landslides, a haunting sight,
A testament to the struggles endured day and night.

She revealed the melting snow, beckoning an avalanche of change,
Witnessing a road where an unsightly swamp once held its range,
Broken ships and skeletons, remnants left estranged,
Abandoned in the depths, hidden in ocean's grange.

Finally, she pointed to the scorching sun with teary eyes, "It didn't burn so fiercely until this heart carried its demise."
labyrinth Nov 2021
Just because you will never be held
Accountable by the unborn face to face
A child who’s to come, yet more like expelled
Say; hundred years from now in this case

Just because you’ll never look him in the eye
Or answer his questions on the nature abuses
In the name of the reasons you had at the time
You and I both know, they were ******* excuses

Just because you can avoid that encounter
You think you can treat the globe the way you do
I’m just gonna ask to nail the lie to the counter
Tell me *******! What does that make you?
Leone Lamp Aug 2021
Last call, last shout
Last drop till the last drought
We had our chance
And we're all still blowing it
Here's the line
Who will start towing it?
Sink or swim
It's time to start rowing it

We're all standing on
Broad shoulders of greed
We all grew up dependent
on disposable sneeds
Woven from the tufts
of the Redwood trees

But it's not our fault,
It wasn't you and me
It was some old grandstander
That we'll never see
Right...?

Well... Yes and no
And it only goes to show
That this house built of windows
Can't stand one more stones throw
So do we quit our jobs and stop driving?
****, I don't know...

We're past the point of blame
It's not all just a game
The more years you've got
The more hot you'll trot
Believe it or not...

So here's to the treaties!
Lower emissions and make it speedy!
**** all the billionaires,
Let's take care of the needy!

Too much to ask?

They never said it'd be easy.
~08/17/2021
Carlo C Gomez Oct 2021
~
Sheltered within her cryochamber, the offspring of Armageddon dreams of play. She swims in an algal bloom that no longer stings like jellyfish. She floats on the surface of content, far removed from the synthetic sea and its plastic isles. She dwells in a bubble, but her mind hangs free as a halo, soaring with clouds. But these are not the skies that sense their own act of vandalism. This is the space and ceiling of a child's mind, in her capacity to absorb disturbance and rest her tiny, fragile hope in pretended, unclaimed worlds.
~
Parker Vance Feb 2021
Birds of a feather flock together in the sultry atmosphere, whirring in and out of crepuscular clouds as if it were nothing special. feathers more like needles blacked under the godless face of the wind. The cliff's voice clings to their sun-smeared backs, reminds them of his own position on an empty, red planet and they sing back that gravity lament. The sky goes on about the lovely morning air and sunlight marches when all birds want is a place to lie down from that brittle flight, to rest their hollow bones filled with a lost longing.
I wonder what it would be like for birds under a red sun.
Daisy Ashcroft Feb 2021
The world is dying
Can't you see?
It's so **** obvious.
All I want is to be free.
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