by Cole McNamara / perilpoet

I once watched the thickest species 
drag an entire planet wide-eyed into destruction.

Their hands, deft and insistent, 
wove cables through forest, 
lit pyres in the sky, 
carved their names into mountains 
that groaned beneath them. 

They did not blink. 
Not when the rivers recoiled, 
not when the air curdled, 
not when the bones of their own making 
jutted from the soil 
like warnings too late to heed.

Even as the world buckled, they marveled. 
Even as the light dimmed, they called it a dawn.

And when the last ember curled into silence, 
they stood—staring—at nothing at all.

If you like this piece, you might also enjoy:

• The Machine Drinks First — a Ruin poem about a world in drought, where we feed the machines our last water while rivers choke, skies pale, and we’re left with trembling, empty hands.
• This Land Was Made For You and Me — a Ruin poem that twists a familiar patriotic refrain into a sharp critique of pied politicians, hollow patriotism, and a country claimed by ego.