The impact of a small raindrop
on the mirrored face of the lake
makes tiny rings, a silent plop,
with wavelets fleeting in their wake.
Was it similar to the rock
that struck the earth, that asteroid
which the ancient gods watched, their talk
calm as ancient life was destroyed?
Perhaps the great gods did not care
about rings so small in their eyes
that they did not see the lives there
burnt and buried, or dead elsewise.
How will they look on the event
that will destroy the human race?
Will it appear as how it went
when the K-T event took place?
Will we pollute our lands and seas
like yeast feeding on corn and rye,
distilling poison like whiskeys
to succeed so well that we die?
Perhaps the end will come to pass
like faintly flaring warhead fire,
a will o’ the wisp of swamp gas
making of us a firefly pyre.
Whatever end awaits us then,
their eyes will pass over our death
as mine do now—so peaceful, zen,
as billions die between each breath.

Poisoned Oasis

So polluted, this oasis
in this vast desert, and so parched—
poisoned with the unseen traces
of what slakes us during our march;
traces of poison created
for convenience of our thirst
thinking ourselves wise, and sated,
to drink from bottles that are cursed,
using death-essence that has staled
from creatures of other ages
to fuel the comforts which hailed
progress in its doubtful stages
till our death march comes to an end
and we sink deep into the wastes
to conclude, soon, this thirsty trend
to fuel other species’ tastes.