Rush Hour

The oil fields
are on fire
in an Apocalyptic blaze,
but the gasoline
still flows freely
from a million pumps
into a billion cars
that suck greedily
upon the teat
of a black gold feast,
guzzling petrol by the gallon
to serve rush hour needs
in a fast paced world,
before belching
the acidic fumes
into an increasingly cloudy sky,
poisoning the atmosphere
with a haze of smog
that hangs heavily
over all our heads
like an ominous bomb
ready to drop
its load of doom at any minute
to prove the theory
that nature
always gets the last laugh;
and fools
only quicken their pace
toward an already yawning grave
that doesn’t need any help
but sure as hell
won’t turn down the assistance
in filling the plot with bones,
covering them over with dirt,
and spinning the next cycle
in a give and take process
toward a fossilized future
laid to rest and waste.

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