There will be a day where castles and mowed lawns will become fossils.
We need another mansion like another plastic bottle in the ocean.
Plants will sit on our couches and chew on the polyester, maybe not.
Possibly dry rot will take the couch and hardwood floors,
and plants will flourish over compost bins and the park where I walk today.
I would love to smell the air when it's clean again.
I'd love my spirit to float in a river purified by the wild.
It'd be nice if a jungle still existed.
Maybe we'll get her back, maybe she'll eat us;
and I question if my poem will be known to generations to come.
Will my writing survive?
Painting and record keeping seem futile.
Still, I celebrate what life has brought me, whatever the outcome of my remains.
