ASH TO CLAY

I. Blossoms from the Wreckage

Can blossoms burst from civilization’s rot
or bright petals pry through ruins we forgot?
Can composted kingdoms, crumbled crown by crown,
feed the roots of new flowers while old cultures drown?

Can ruddy blooms rip through the sealed crypts of deceit,
as their roots weave under poisoned streets?
Can fresh tendrils find footholds where fallen machines
lie rusting among the wreckage of former dreams?

From our bloated bowels, rife with gluttony and grief,
will our remnants sprawl across plastic-laden seas,
only to amount to final, floating elegies?

Contemplating this, consider this:

After the wings of time no longer coil,
and tall towers tilt of tomorrow cease,
when plastic merges with humus and oil,
and our clever inventions break down,
will we recognize our mutant offspring?