They just keep going up, up over the neighbors' houses, over parking lots full of gas-guzzlers, over sun-burnt fields, and over the flood that caused that pregnant woman to give birth in a tree. Too much rain and too much sun. I'm tired of worrying if someone's daddy will morph into Noah. Then the sun gets beaten into submission on my windshield, into my eyes. How would the view of Earth be for Oil Company executives flying above a galactic design of coordinates on Earth, indicative of a string of severe misjudgments and lies from the board room? The scientifically-poetic pulse that illustrates how we're still here at all is akin to air pockets after an earthquake or terror attack. Or should I say between them?
Questions abound for the ne'er-do-well. That they write anew the history of time reminds me of the U.S.S. Enterprise talking about us in whispers and sorrow as the failed past that sent them, needy, to the stars.
Is all hope gone? As I turn my view of Earth inside-out, I view its implosion. Then a langolear chomps it away and leaves us with...nothing. Another possibility has the Earth in the aftermath of a frantic CPR. Do we have to grab the steering wheel? Oh, I forgot. We've been trying to do that but the offenders are swift. We can grab it back, but then, do we have time to use it?
According to Stephen Hawking, even that may not be enough. We also need to invent cures for unseen and/or unmentioned diseases. Some things we just can't cure. Might the perpetuation of the immorality affecting individuals' rights be among them?
But those dancing red lines tell us to keep up the mantra in creative melodies. One of them just has to hit the right coordinates.