Happy Bicentenary Men

The final bloom was sick infection floating on the skin of Gaia. Fools who had heard the word reached in their pockets to scatter coin against the whirling of dust. All their lucre bought time. They siphoned life from the coagulating blood in the veiny carcasses of the poor. Their grab for scrapes of eternity found them housed in the plastic bubbles foretold by the dystopians. In the false atmospheres and the eco friendly air-conditioning of their little green tombs they looked out at a planet falling into fetid coma, stars still blinking on the horizon, and at the last knew true loneliness.