she in her ever turning days
patiently holds us
in her warm, kind arms
while we, like ADD teenagers
striking at every next moment
nearsighted reaching
knives at our own throats
assuming them laurels, while
thoroughly, fundamentally
believing we are masters
of a fragile playground

she suffers in silence
knowing we are decimating
pissing on our own home
expecting roses to grow
aye, yet
a thorny bush breaks through
arises from the dust
of sullen concrete
we few, laugh joyously
we many, desire, want
there is no sharing here

she will turn on
long after dire circumstance
sanctions our demise
bruised, battered, heartbroken
but upon a path of renewal
the lowest caste
re-attaining the pinnacle
of the brutal food chain
can there be
would there be
reoccurrence of the arrogant ape?