Maybe The Time Has Come
The world is dying.
The marbled blue and green mass of cells and gases
that has birthed so much life is dying.
Life that has bubbled into more life.
Life that flies and swims and slithers and walks.
Life that simply multiplies.
Life that contemplates it all.
The world must be so old.
She has surely aged.
For continents have split and shifted
like skin that stretches and sags, shrinks and wrinkles
with time and with weariness.
Surely she has aged, yet in her core she burns hot.
Much as ours is.
Call it what you wish.
Hers is the source of all.
It rages now, so maybe age has nothing to do with her current state.
Maybe she is angry.
Maybe she has tired of watching as her creations destroy themselves
destroy each other.
Maybe she's taken too much abuse.
Or maybe not.
Maybe she shoulders it all
as mothers do.
She carries on strongly
holding us all up.
providing us with warmth, food, drink.
As we take more than she can give
More than our share.
She smiles sadly with love for her creations.
But, she can't stop the destructive path we've chosen.
Maybe she thinks it's her fault.
Maybe she feels great regret.
She must burst with it.
Her sadness echoes in eruptions.
Her moments of grief
Her attempts to steer us the right way
There is no love without discipline.
She leaves her surface parched and burning.
Taking away her fruits.
She floods her seeds before they can even sow
Rotting out her crops.
Desperate, fearful attempts to slow our course for our own sake, not hers.
Or maybe it's not emotion at all.
It is very possible she's sick.
Of ill health.
And left for her own survival
Left by her own creations to slowly wilt
or to adapt and survive.
Her fever burns hot
Her chills shake the ground.
Our cities fall.
And whether she adapts or her time has come, we will be the casualties.
Before new life can spring forth, all will be wiped clean.
The Earth is older than thought.
The world is dying.
Her creations remain selfish and blind.