The world grows round on greed, hungers for more,
scales tip with pickings of the rich, scraps of the poor
left high and dry, the synapse snapped like a brittle twig,
kindle for the need that consumes like wildfire.
Our earth burns, sick with fever, its lungs collapsed.
We thought time was ours to kill, to hang
like a trophy on immutable walls. It let us run
free as sand through an infinite glass,
until our shadows grew long, never thinking
it would turn against us.
How sublime we are, how supreme,
to outweigh nature in her balance.
We are soon to meet ourselves in our ruin,
while we sit back and wait for the brewing
of our perfect storm.
We are a squall blown out by its own puff,
Earth slips from our greasy palms, time turns
in a winding sheet. Death, with its heavy humour
restores the balance, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
We have kissed time goodnight, switched off
the lights, yet we won’t rest easy beneath the sods,
but turn like milk in a curdling sun, the future
souring above us. Our shadows are cast
in stone. May we never rest in peace.
Stella’s work has been widely published and has appeared in several anthologies, including #MeToo, and The Very Best of 52. Journal publications include: The New European, French Literary Review, Prole, IS&T and many others. She is co-editor of 4Word Press who published her pamphlet, After Eden.