Turning Tide (a poem)

Klingon Hamlet

End of August. Start of Autumn.
Something’s coming. Something awful.
The air is thick, a clammy soup.
The tallest of us slow and droop.
The sky is silver, grey and dull.
The clouds move slowly, bellies full.
The nights are close and dark and long.
The days are worse. Weather’s gone wrong.
They blame it on global warming.
They say this is but a warning.
I wonder what we’re being warned of.
I don’t think it’s what makes us cough.
The belching chimneys leave a stain.
The fumes do rise and cause us pain.
Earth may change but she won’t crumble.
Earth may falter. She won’t stumble.
We are but a visiting guest.
We don’t control, we just infest.
We leech and preach about our powers.
Our millennia are Earth’s hours.
So while Earth can survive the Fall
The turning tide will end us all.