The Hole

Drill's whine,

Drown'd by engine's,

Labor, clanking,

Grabbing joint,

Lengthening reach.

Depths below,

Gaseous black muck,

Seal'd by eons,

Of Nature's wisdom,

Away from greed.

Hole spewing,

Forth with pressure,

Atoms of hydrogen,

Carbon bound,

Carcinogen entwined.

Black death,

Rotten by design,

Putrefied to warn,

Unwary hands,

To never touch.

But un-heeding,

Drill proceeding,

Crude muck pumping,

To surface, not seen

For eons back.

And like the oil,

Of great Whales,

It replaced, It will,

In time, recede,

To strange Memory.

Nothing, but,

An empty,

HOLE.

© 2017 Carl Erickson