Collages of Death

Glued, all that we've left of life: remains
cut, ancient stories long since burnt, before
beef was anything but dangerous. Trees
erupted, spread, enough at once to keep us safe, now
scorched remains, nothing there but epitaphs.

Looking down from second life, Moon born kind
potted history survives, what green must have been,
life in Goldilocks' perfect world; as greedy sliced
existence into ruin, broken for commercial gain
never for its joy to breathe again.

All that's left, in pictures, billions of selfies
selfish looking inward, never out: perhaps, if
everyone had thought, turned phones around,
pixels might, altered trajectory's plunge...
except, all that is left, forms Collages of Death;

more people should have listened to the ground.