Sunday, September 15, 2013

V. 2, #170: September 15, 2013

When all this goes to ashes, and the sun
destroys the planet it once nurtured; when
the wetlands bake to brick, and there are none
to witness this new shattered wasteland; men

will be a distant memory, or less:
a ghost with no house left to haunt, no kin
to pester for remembrance; just a mess
of charred leaves and bleached bones; if someone then

should come upon this ball, some other race
from distant stars should walk the dried sea bed
where life began and ended on the face
of dear, departed Earth, and count the dead--

I hope, before they shrug and carry on,
they'll wonder who we were, and where we've gone.

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