Our freedoms imprison us.
Even now we want more than we need,
tho' we do not yet know what we want.
We do without knowing,
we know without doing.
We do without nothing.

Scaremonger the tip of our iceberg hearts.
This is this race of a thousand false starts,
and we, the runners, the player of parts.
We with the stones and the broken glasses,
You with your runaway greenhouse gases.
Her heart, still molten,
we've frozen these assets.

This horse is gone,
yet we search for the locks.
We look to the skies,
we watch all the clocks.
The second hand,
our second thoughts.
This futile search,
these last resorts.

This weight of extinction is heavy,
shackling life's gift of buoyancy,
of optimism.
It pulls us under the rising tide of humanity.

We belong to the future,
It does not belong to us.