She reaches out Her severed, bleeding hand –
so vulnerable, She’s down to skin and bones;
Her lungs collapse – a castle in the sand,
consumed in pain and so utterly alone.
since Her early days, She’s remained quiet;
Her pain towers over Her dying oaks.
these heavy clouds seem like cause for riot,
and yet, we are convinced they are a hoax.
through years of change, we’ve used Her to no end –
a crime that sees no sight of sane justice.
the grave keeps growing, now a proven trend,
the shovel is ruined by the rust, it’s
frightening. to think we might be too late.
i only wish i could prevent Her fate.