Scott Thomas Outlar writes

Rush Hour

The oil fields

are on fire

in an Apocalyptic blaze,

but the gasoline

still flows freely

from a million pumps

into a billion cars

that suck greedily

upon the teat

of a black gold feast,

guzzling petrol by the gallon

to serve rush hour needs

in a fast paced world,

before belching

the acidic fumes

into an increasingly cloudy sky,

poisoning the atmosphere

with a haze of smog

that hangs heavily

over all our heads

like an ominous bomb

ready to drop

its load of doom at any minute

to prove the theory

that nature

always gets the last laugh;

and fools

only quicken their pace

toward an already yawning grave

that doesn’t need any help

but sure as hell

won’t turn down the assistance

in filling the plot with bones,

covering them over with dirt,

and spinning the next cycle

in a give and take process

toward a fossilized future

laid to rest and waste.