The territory just beyond the Appalachians was the Earth's for a while. Untouched and kept as it should, her wonderful force pushing and pulling at a perfect and even rate. That's how it's supposed to be, perfect. And it was, until they pressed their hard foot down into the grass. The moss tearing off of trees, dripping slowly off of the bark until it is stripped naked and bare. The terrible flash of red stings, as the birds and beetles cry, their home a tattered mess.
Why would anyone do this? It was something no creature, plant, or entity had the answer for. All of the emerald and lilac fields now a hot flat mess. The previous world suffocating under concrete and stone.
Man-made things, awful, intruding, beguiling things. Waste upon waste.
The pile appears to only get higher, and the daunting irony of what the future holds swings over the world like an ailing pendulum.
Weak, knowing, reckless.
That is how the earth is, it is no longer what once was. And this is not a story to frighten the people into change, because no matter how much change nothing will ever be the same. This is our history, and that is how history works: a mere reflection of what once was, and what is now.
You must learn from your mistakes, for ignorance is not bliss, it is an overgrown pile of garbage.
YOU ARE READING
Silverfish
PoetryA compilation of written thoughts, poems, and short stories composed by myself
