Day after night, night after day,
high pressure, low pressure
winds here to stay,
a world in disarray.
Weather is more predictable
with each new measuring tool.
Less stable winds make prediction
a game for worried fools.
Earth bellows and heaves,
quakes at the disgrace
of shifting ideologies
gathered at the starting gate,
ready to race.
What prize do runners seek
running over Earth’s oldest tracks,
heaving as the path cracks
beneath their greedy feet,
sweating oil, with greasy smiles?
Who waits at the finish line
to hand out the winning purse
filled with drug, guns and oil cash
at the end of their long dash,
during a race where Earth
is pounded into submission, or worse.
Breathless audiences watch
the entertaining game.
Some bet, some cheer, and many cry.
The race to unknown riches takes power and control,
enough to make one frown and sigh.
But such a race is meaningless
and getting very, very old.
Earth cares not who wins such a prize.
Earth overtakes all racers
who race against her clean skies.
annarino writes 