What we are not

We are not an indication that civilization fell.

Maybe it was crumbled already and

only now midst our bright eyes can it be seen that

cities don’t stand so tall,

countries only run so wide,

and

the Earth doesn’t choose like we do.

A blade

It sticks up. Talll, short, strong.
The wind pushes it around
But it doesn’t break it.
Just wavers

It stays up. Weathered, there
People walk all over it
dirt covers it and dust settles.

It lies flat.
Not completely so, but almost
Bugs eat away at it
Holes define it.

It’s bundeled away
with others, sure.

It’s cut down
No longer with the earth, not anymore
But with others, just as dead.

It’s close
close to earth still
but not part of it.
Not like it used to be.