Feathers: A Book of Poetry

Child

You're still a kid.
What could we do, anyway?
It's just the way things are.

Your tired smile
and problems wane,
we try to realize,
but the world's aflame,
is it only us
that think it so?
See the colors changing,
the grass not grow?
Life replaced
by plastic bags
worth defined
by stupid price tags,
sadness rising,
disease spread,
yet all you think of
are problems
in your head,
when fires burn
and ice sheets melt,
do you have no heart
to feel what we felt?

Or maybe you don't care at all
that the world we'll enter
will soon fall.

You've played in grass,
you've felt the rain,
you've touched the sun,
childhood you've gained,
but us,
we get none of the things
that made you smile,
beckoned to sing,
you flew high
while we are caged,
you had your life,
but what makes us rage
is that
our world is crumbled
while yours was pure,
none of you adults
seem to want a cure,
and what we'll find
when we've grown up?

It's not true
that Earth's
yet
to erupt.