Rising
Upon the island
And what little remains
Is flooding
The ice is melting
And the smoke of society
Stirs the lungs of Gaia…
Fire.
And water.
The last citadel is clinging to itself.
Perhaps the smoke serpents will withdraw.
Or slither out of the atmosphere.
Perhaps the island will be no more.
And the nebulous mass take control.
I only hope that the water finds some consciousness
Or some greater being.
And then no loss will be measured
On the scales of my ecology.
