Cataclysmic

Blown by a wind of change
Morning settles like a cloud on today's still face.

Every human step falls, a drumbeat,
And the rythmn, indistinct in the wash of rivers and seas,
Drowns beneath this trafficking, squalling race.
The earth seethes its revenge around them.

The world, turning, hesitates.
Time, whose secret agency of change,
Subverts the human organism,
Twists its spirals this way and that.

And the world continues:
The people in it barely understand;
They follow gravity to its logical end;
They take what today and tomorrow hold
They leave the future to die its own peculiar death.

The things they make are hardly gifts.
What they own is stolen goods.
The air they breathe is manufactured, bought and sold,
Even the darkness that takes them to their beds of dreams.
Their blind fumbling quests for peace
Are broken.

The day rolls over and night falls upon them.
The stars and the yellow moon despair.
The grass beneath the sky is as grey as old age.
The trees and forest scapes are rustling cages
Where wild things hide for fear.

Who can tell these scrambling humans
That the time has passed
When they could stroll, cock of the walk,
Across the wilderness and the plain
Over the desert and the hill?

The sun is boiling with rage,
And the moon a red shadow in grizzled heaven.
Every planet orbits in misery.
The human parasite sucks the earth's bowl dry
Leaving nothing behind.

So the seas rebel and drown all the roads.
The atmosphere reclaims heaven from the flying machines.
Rain and wind wash clean the face of the earth.
The sun dries away a millennium's tears.
The century begins again.

People everywhere call for help
But the wires of the universe are crossed
And no help comes.

Initialising