Global warming has long-since licked the heels and calves of those in denial. Bent and curled at the knees, they float, drift, circle and die. Blinded by water and light, greed and madness, they float in their demise.
They used to pay for, even welcome, the blackness of the deep, black rock, black dust. It heated their rooms while they made laws. Now they drift in melted ice, while others just dry up and crawl.
Each sliver of broken water produces a drowning liar. The Swift Boat Syndrome. Now loud voices with fewer friends. If the message is so clear that it's broken loose, threatening to engulf the main castle, let the winds blow, corn and vegetable grow, and plug the holes in the earth and water.
But now it melts those stone mountains faster than we can drink from them, bathe in them, cook with them. They're not meant to leave...not this fast. And neither are we. Or are we, if the ones with culprit ears and eyes are bound to be deaf? How many images and voices will it take?
The clarity of talk and motion has sprung immunity among the main offenders. It seems the time has come, if not already done, to extend an invitation for them to observe history and the future simultaneously. Perhaps a visit to the coordinates of the deterioration in action is in order, unless it, too, has already been done.
And if it has, let's call upon their children. Would they have anything to say?
