The earth is drowning
in its own blood.
Its bones now crumbling
like a castle
under its weight,
out of neglect,
into a graceless ruin —
never to be restored,
never to be able to bask
in its former glory.
This creaking noise of time.
This ticking sound of bones.
This whispering of the sea
growing into a scream.
The arrogance of oceans
or the child like nonchalance
playing in our backyard
on their whims.
The bacchanalian wind,
a carousel stopping for no one,
the vulnerability of land,
earth imitating our bellies —
rumbling, grumbling.
There was enough for all for us
yet we have been scrambling,
until the poison of excess
left us wanting.
We are out of our depths,
huffing and panting,
at the gates of apocalypse
like tantalus,
food a luxury though in
the middle of a feast,
having angered the gods,
we, the hungry beasts
made up of water
now swallowed by it.