Bleeding Selfish

main_gp0stoe9i_meitu_1                                            Indonesian rainforests-Writingasitcomes

A rumble of silence creeps
into the veins of
tangible pain, numbing senses
temporarily
while corruption still tortures.

Our touch contaminates
until we sicken
nature’s soft noise –
drowning against
humanity’s sonorous roar –
animals need to sleep
amid our mess.

Tribes and wildlife and ecosystems need to exist –
amid our mess, not endure enforced extinction.
We have made some
of the biggest mistakes
of our existence.
But we are who we are,
and mistakes will happen
until we are no longer here…
amid our mess.

Erosion

mamu“Scientists estimate that 150-200 species of plant, insect, bird and mammal become extinct every 24 hours. This is nearly 1,000 times the “natural” or “background” rate and, say many biologists, is greater than anything the world has experienced since the vanishing of the dinosaurs nearly 65m years ago.”

Is our sole purpose
to contribute
to the epic verse
of the universe?
Or to document
in written, raw emotion
like stepping on
emeralds in the sand?
My dreams harden,
and sparkle
inside of geodes’ imaginations.
With the right mix of erosion and stress
earth’s natural sandstone
of arches and columns,
come into their own,

also eroded by tears
and mammoth tusks and hard shoulders;
rocks rubbed to a fine polish
stand mile high,
and
of long ago,
A time unknown
to our bare feet, till
we, the intruders,
came and made them
lost.
History will repeat
itself –
and extinction’s epitaphs
will be made.
But slow the pace of this
manic and unnecessary, beating drum.
Survival and intellect,
tribes and competition,
greed and capitalism,
humanity’s neo morals.
We are all a part,
we are the rhythm,
But without a heart
(Ecosystem)
We are nothing.

Returning Home

Exquisite photography by Nick Brandt

Who will inherit the dust
after weightless ghosts
finally fall under swirling clouds,
where once mighty shadows
walked on crusted earth.
All will soon be lost like dried reflections
in still lakes
to join the halo of hoofed prints standing visibly
as relics of the past
in the rubble of wasteland’s
grit and bones;
grazed lands bulldozed by long necks,
craned where the giraffe would stand tower high
to machines, where
visual echoes of elephants walking through grass
become archways of elephant tusks –
a legacy of brutal remains,
killed by man’s hands –
now held by man in reverent pose
to spur magnificent footsteps to death
inside of an elephant cathedral,
perhaps to join with them in mourning,
or so that we might better understand
and stop the apocalypse
this time around.

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