When the ice melts
And the forests burn
And the earth flattens
And the story turns -
I will say my farewell in a metaphor.
A gentle one,
Of the sweetest kind
Wrapped in a blanket
The type children never leave behind
A metaphor that would get passed around for generations.
That would include all kinds of explanations.
Like an allegory, or a poem for the ages
About the death of mankind
And the children in cages.
Consumerism has played a part,
So did ego and its greed
There were also purists among the herd
But they were not the ones to lead.
No, mankind likes its stars shiny and high up above
Separate from the earth and oozing with self-love
But what do I know, now, or when it all ends
I am no better than the sum of all my friends
And fuck it - they are no angels in this hell of ours
Nor are they devils in this dirty paradise.
We're a bunch of old tales in modern silhouettes
But with every passing moment we forget:
Forget we are nothing in the scope of things
So why bother chasing our silly hopes and dreams?
When will we tend to what matters most -
Our Amazon forests and our rolling hills and coasts
And of course - tend to the home within
Which is a metaphor for the home outside our skin
The door to the other and the window to the soul
And for fuck sake people - stop talking about COAL
Hug your mother and your mother earth
Ha! there's a metaphor for your glorified rebirth.
Roses are red and they're a dying breed too
And so are US, my friend, so are me and you.
I've reached the end of the page and my rhymes took hold
I am no perfect I know, but have a heart of gold
That was a metaphor too, the kind you already know
And when I bid farewell my metaphor will grow
Like roots of a tree it will expand
With branches it will embrace this entire land
Or it will be forgotten like the best of words
Or perhaps it one day will be sung by birds
A tale of humans and their blind chase
To look beyond for some empty space
And miss out on earth in all her glory
Never seeing the broad daylight hidden allegory
Poems are here to point us in a direction
Or maybe they are meant to tint us with connection
Connection to something greater than the self
Or perhaps they're meant to stay on the bookshelf
Until a child years from now will pull them down
And draw a face on the cover, of perhaps a clown
A heart, a star, a home
With a crayon - the child will make her own poem
She won't need words to cloud her stride
The child is already open and wide eyed
All us humans can do is hope for her to lead
And perhaps then nature's words of wisdom will finally be freed.
In April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling.
Header Art: Daniel Landerman