The Poetry of World War IV - 11

The Poetry of World War IV - 11
Christopher Bogart

4.
Behold, a pale horse.
His rider advances him forth,
And halts.
From the open visor of the mask
Emanates the thick black smoke
Of carbon, of oil, crude waste,
As forests, once full green,
Now blaze,
Creating an unending haze
Of pollution, destruction, of waste
As black crude gushes from underneath
The ground,
Underneath the oceans to slick and coat
The last flailing struggles of stricken Nature.
As the black smoke clears,
Desolation abounds,
And as the eyes look round,
Nothing remains that moves,
That grows,
Above or below,
For man has finally carved his mark,
His scar in carbon and tar
For life and his unlucky progeny.