Would we do it differently, if we had the chance?

Knowing what comes, could we suck the fresh air, replacing it with fumes and chemical perfumes to stain the lungs and wilt the flowers?

Would seas rush out and dry with salted sands the scorched planetary face—eclipsing centigrades beyond mercury under the heat of a grinding sun?

No atmosphere to cloud the judgment of solar condemnation.

The ghosts of tomorrow say “Never,” but I would disagree.

I travel this slow-motion path of destruction and see our unshadowed future–no wind to rustle the memory of leaves.

We stopper our ears so we can’t hear trees weep.

The moon hangs her head—a ghost-shaped reflection of a desolate Earth.

Note to Self: Watching Interstellar may have imbued your writing with depressive fatalism.

Daily Prompt courtesy of The Daily Post.