The Weight of Waste

A flick of the wrist, a casual release, We label it 'trash,' find momentary peace. Yet whispers rise from a world in slow decline, A burden building, a tangled, choking vine. Our Mother Earth, once vibrant, strong, and free, Now stumbles, gasping, for all the world to see. Her painted landscapes, exquisite and so deep, Are fading fast, as sorrow starts to creep. Each bottle, each can, a mark of our sin, A wound on her skin where the poisons begin. We bury our heads in a comfort-laced dream, While mountains of waste choke the life from the stream. A landscape shifts to bleakness, stark and bare, Polluted skies hang heavy in the air. The children's laughter fades, a distant plea, No verdant fields, no space for them to play. Perhaps we'll stir when skies begin to weep, When poisoned winds disturb our slumber deep. Too late we'll learn, with gasps of aching breath, That apathy had dealt the final death. Remember now, before the final toll, Before we carve a scar upon her soul. Trash is not just trash, a careless, fleeting whim, It's life itself, growing dim, growing grim. So, lift your gaze, and mend your careless ways, Recycle, reuse, let Earth have more brighter days. Preserve her beauty, with a conscious, caring hand, Leave not a trace, let future generations have a chance.