Worms In the Fruit of God

Are we, yea, the worms in the fruit that twas God's, We that hollow out hills mining rock, stone and clods, We that heap up the fill into mountainous wastes Until nothing is left Until nothing is chaste? Worms, we, dining so fine that we blind cannot see That the fruit once loved fresh Is now riddled, Diseased. Paradise had we in our grasp, in our ease. But that Paradise had is one lost through Man's greed! We have eaten the whole tree From fruit unto root And are still-- Unappeased! We whose avarice churns forth to the Me-Me-Me masses All Nature's abundance in plastics and glasses, The abundance of a once chaste Creation Mined, melted and molded, Baked, boiled, boxed and UPC coded. Until all is consumed by unnatural Worms Whose leavings are to themselves harm. Are we the Worms in the Apple of God? If so, can we alter our state, And learn to nurture this Garden So wrecked by our Greed And sow in this Garden a better seed, Else we might follow the creatures passed from the Light, The mammoth, the dire wolf and the dodo alike So that this once holy Creation, This blessed Remnant, This Fruit of Light, Might remember our passing, We being but A blight.