Air.
The life source our
whole planet depends on

is slowly being transformed
into choking fog,
a toxic cloud of pollution.

As I sit under this towering tree,
wind blowing through its branches,
I envision CO2 smokestacks coming

out of every person’s mouth,
letting the poison fly.
Factories and houses and cars,

blowing out a steady rush of
little black devils, free to roam
the doomed earth,

laughing demonically, planting
death like an innocent seed
in the lungs of millions.

Chemicals, poisons, acids.
We are creating
billowing clouds of a substance

not worthy to be called air.
And as I sit here,
on the springy green grass,

I see a mother squirrel, bouncing along,
oblivious to all problems except
her own, and I know that I, too,

will go on living like everything
is perfectly normal. Aware of
what is right in front of me,

ignoring all else.
As I sit here writing this,
factories and houses and cars

continue to pollute
and my pen continues to burn paper.
All as I breathe in life and

breathe out putrid black smoke.