1°C more

Cut your hand against the weathered sandstone and take it into the sea, 
Wade it in the warmth of the melting Antarctic breeze, 
Watch as she leads you further from the shore,
Suffocates you in seaweed, sinks you to the ocean floor

She warned you before of all the things she would do. 
But why would we listen? 

Swing open the doors and burn fires from the floor.

But she was screaming, I tell you.
Every night and every day, 
Begging you to listen, hoping one day you would change. 
I could hear her howl in the wind, cries from her shores; 
I tried to lead her back into the place where she came, 

Fix all the damage we all sought to make. 

But she showed me the burnt walls and the emptiness of her plains, 
The withered trees and dehydrated vertebrae 
And I joined her in grief and held her hand as she wept. 

How could I hold the woman I knew I had fought?

So don’t think I pity you when I see you dead on the ocean floor.  
Damage can only be fixed when the Damager is gone. 
1°C more.