We're Running Out Of Time

I held the Earth in my hands,
tasting the crackle of sienna and the fire’s epilogue.
Shards of nature prickle my palms,
the start, yet end of a memory.
“I have a dream”, I wrote with charcoal fragments.
Where you all shall realise birds are no longer singing,
but screaming “We're running out of time,”
whilst fire licks at their wings in the hopes of tasting time’s sweet end.
I have a dream of seeing green again,
where the sun cuts through stained glass leaves
and meets its grass, a requited love
but forever cursed apart.
I have a dream I’ll see Halley’s Comet once more,
greeting her stars in a blackened night.
Except the fire’s putting them out one by one
replaced with Nightmare’s right-hand men named Smoke and Ash.
The Earth will never wait. Not for people like us.
Supremative fools wrapped in healer’s garments. For the last time
I write in charcoal fragments,
“We're running out of time.”