Our Suffocating Oil War

Ancient blood‑soaked sand still plumes its sticky residue
beneath the rapacious hooves of profit.
Pipelines hum like taut nerves,
driving their black‑gold addiction toward gleaming ports where tankers
wait open‑mouthed, patient as predators.

Dust storms rise like ghostly stampedes beside the metal veins,
while windmills of molten fire turn slowly in the heat‑hazed distance,
their blades slicing the daylight into warnings we refuse to read.

Across continents, wheeled transport
delivers adult indulgence in quiet caravans,
each engine a breathless accomplice to the slow suffocation of oceans.
The world turns on turbine propulsion,
our skies dimming under liquid smokestack shadows,
the air tasting faintly of tomorrow’s forgotten children.

Greed, lathered in its own sweat,
rides the winds of historic baggage,
blessings, curses, and all whirling them into a vortex
that blinds the cataracted eyes of those still clinging
to the mane and tail of a dying era.

And when the last flare stack flickers out,
the planet settles into ashen dust,
a barren sphere powdered by our fool’s‑gold choices.

Finally…

Above this quiet gray hush,
alien life hovers in a muted glide,
their vessels shimmering like glass birds
drifting through the remains of a once‑blue dream.
They pause,
a stillness like the held breath before a candle gutters,
as if trying to read our final, smokeless epitaph.

Then…

Seeing only the residue of our self‑lit pyre,
they turn away, folding into the cosmos
in search of sanity we could not keep.