To those who envy us

The earth we walk on envies us;

beaten and bound by our footsteps so raucous,

with no sense or rhythm to imprint

but the tome of profit

injected into the fracked earth

until it breaks under our ambition’s girth. 

The crumbling monuments we built to our romanticized forebears,

now chinks and chips of cruelty and malice in an indifferent world.

But the heavens cannot help but envy us,

as we run on molten soil and flaking crust,

tainted with the blood of warmongers and innocents alike––

the high school girls with all bark but no bite;

that man feeding pigeons in the serene moonlight––

remembered alike by the blades of grass they nourished

and the catastrophe that flourished.

When we decided to be true to ourselves and have fun,

and the moon died and so did the sun,

our footprints turned to carbon prints,

the crying of the sea and sky gave us hints;

“But we have purpose,” we validated ourselves.

We spoke divine philosophy, deluding ourselves from the hell

we wrought upon ourselves… But why should we care?

All will all pass and become uncharacterizable air.

So we wave our arms around and grab

at particles so infinitesimal yet still we brag,

“They know me! They remember me!

My friends and my enemies!”

For we are happiest when we are human,

imprinting ourselves and then some,

hoping they will remember us as all things must,

as happy little bits of earthbound stardust.