Nowhere is now. Adrift is one’s mind
at the Red Sea. A festival of floating sirens.
Man is a spiller to pages, drifters staking
gripping ages. Reminiscing the crisp &
pristine, the golden meadows now ashen.
The mercy of Venus thrusts upon lungs
that rapture. Glare upon the starless sea.
But Earth cannot return its majestic plea.
Constellations have run out. Erupted into
beehive satellites. Crash is calm & foreign to
Mother.

At the forefront of the damaged express,
Earth lingers asleep in its decay. Once never
dormant. Once seeking hands that plant an
ounce of empathy. Once grasslands, now
wastelands. Marigolds transformed animosity.
Porous creatures lurk with oxygen tanks on
their backs. No more tamed storms. No more
Shading trees but towering cities. There is
the known apocalypse that cripples what was
once lush & real but now a claim of cerebral fantasy.