The white globe glows on

We will all tremor in the future
And there will be no mistaken escape
No sense of time after apocalypse
What a strange and magnificent invention
Is the prophecy of our own death
* * *
We exploit so much of what is given
Only to be erased by time’s earthy hands
Forever and for good, cheers to our stay
We who were braver for the failures of our fears
* * *
There’s no comfort in tomorrow, if you know
What is to come, there’s no dawn to sooth the ache
Only the exquisite dream of utopia
Whispers from the Upanishades, of all things
* * *
We will love the future, even if it won’t be ours
It’s better by far than loving the past
The past has its own authority over us
Which we cannot yet control
* * *
We live in sketches that wish to be real
In simulations of quantum entanglement so elegant
The white globe glows on, humanity is a wounded woman
Obliged to accept her role in our decay.

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