The Stained Earth

the weather sings a sour note,
a lazy drizzle, true,
but thunder rolls like luminous ire in the distance
and my heart wishes that it would become a downpour,
hard, pelting drops of renewal
that would flood the world and cleanse it.
but that is mere hope.
no storm can possibly wash clean the stained earth,
millennia upon millennia full of bloodshed
have left a lurid smear on its surface.

we are wretched creatures, are we not, we humans,
discontent with what has been blessed us,
always in search of more.
the search begins at birth, the onset of wondrous life,
and ends with death, coda, conclusion of the spanning movement,
while the immortal soul takes a deep breath
and prepares to finish what remains of the composition.
and what stunning release that next, final removal would be,
a relief from the unending conflict we mortal men
seem intent upon.

we conflict with other nations, and find conflict within our own,
we are conflicted with ourselves.
and no longer distinguish the right and the wrong of it,
moral obligation is now nothing more than chore,
one we no longer task ourselves with.
i despise the advancement of my years
and would gladly return to the days of childhood ignorance
where the earth was, to me, a thing of beauty,
fertile soil and graceful mountain,
teal water ocean and azure sky,
and not a thing to be pitied, fin.