The Hell of Our Making
By Mark Edgemon

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The Hell of Our Making
By Mark Edgemon

 The earth moved again this morning,
A hundred degrees on this Christmas Eve.
The days of the Super Nova have come.
The new Earth better be waiting in the wings!
 
Communications are down,
Mechanical machines are dead.
No stores, no goods and food is what we make it.
Strange, just a few years ago, everything was fine!
 
As a light bulb grows brighter before going out,
The sun is getting hotter and whiter than was ever known to be
There are no thieves, there is nothing to steal,
There is no sin, the heat has burned it away!
 
A news network satellite fell to the ground today,
Half buried in my back yard, the metal soft as clay.
I can no longer breath outdoors, so I view it from my window.
It melts, I watch. That is all there is too do.
 
We starve, we burn hotter each day, but no one seems to die.
I see people walking across my yard, I know were buried years past.
So, that's how He will do it. The Earth is recreated as hell!
It was my intent to make things right. I should not have waited!
 
The End

Go on to next poem by Mark Edgemon: The Liquid Mistress
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