I sit upon a cloud
Looking down at the Earth below,
and I am sore afraid.
For we have become our own undoing.

Given everything in the Beginning,
Yet we have destroyed so much:
The trees, the oceans, the animal life,
the very air we breathe.
Going, going . . . how soon to be gone?

Given the gift of Knowledge,
Yet we suffer fools,
Worship scoundrels,
Blindly follow those who lead us
to the abyss.
We are our own undoing.

Our years are finite,
Yet we waste them on frivolities.
I am as guilty as any.
I carry that guilt daily:
the guilt of being my own undoing.

So as my years run out, I write,
And in the writing find pleasure and release.
But if my words go unread,
Is not my writing the ultimate conceit?

Or is today’s failure destined to become
the wellspring of my posthumous success?
For now, I have no way of knowing.

I sit upon a cloud,
But only in my dreams,
For I am yet alive.
And as I wake, I wonder:

Is there still time?

Brendochka
6/26/24