Less air, more gold,
Consume all in sight
Like louse to timbre,
Empty our skies of silver,
Replace every cloud with ash,
Fill our roads with rivers,
And reduce this forest to ember,
These once green fields,
now a hollow reflection of the sun,
only a weak hue of yellow remains,
It almost sounds nice when you word it like this, a little ice between the eyes,

Poetry has its way of turning the dying to life,
Although make no mistake,
This is dying,
This is already dead, having been dying,
Having known of death,
This is being at the funerals,
At the wake,
Refusing to believe you’re in-front of it all,
Refusing to believe it is you next,
The busied mortuary is not a figment of your imagination,
Some awful end of the world dream,
These people are really dead.
These people are really dying.
These people are our family.
These people are our family.

We have come this far,
And traded greenery for green,
Turned solid rock to wittle stone,
Cast upon some wedding finger,
How does this diamond flicker in the moonlight,
When it is a mile beneath the earth.

A billion reasons of why we are so damn stubborn,
We are not done dying,
And are not even at the door of saving,

This is the only time we have left
To save the rest from death,

I promise you,
You can stare at this dying only so long,
Until it is you,
with your back against the sun,
gasping for breath.