hu·bris
ˈ(h)yo͞obrəs/
noun
- excessive pride or self-confidence.
synonyms: arrogance, conceit, haughtiness, hauteur, pride, self-importance, egotism, pomposity,superciliousness, superiority; More
- (in Greek tragedy) excessive pride toward or defiance of the gods, leading to nemesis.
What little we know, of this earth we inhabit, is laughable, really...and tragic. We fancy our self's,'superior'. We spread forth, in the certainty of our predestination, our manifest right, to despoil every living place and thing...and then, piss on the sacred burial. We are, in fact, a 'blotch', a cancer, a pariah...upon the great back of a living, breathing world, and "she is pained, to be delivered."
The angels, gathered together here, that we thought were for us...are for 'them', the children of their dying, mother. Watch 'them', in the sky, as they rise...these great lights, 'unexplained', both day and night. Listen to their voice, that 'tectonic call'...of 'mourning', as a trumpet from the earth and sky...her belly filled with them, to set them free...before she fails. Listen, to their cry of separation.
She bears 'angels', and they carry off her soul...to heaven. Then, what of us? Then, what OF us? What have we done? Who are WE, but what we 'pretend', and DEMAND!? What are WE, but 'brats'...in a vacuum, that think ourselves...more than? I think, that's quite enough...expectation. Is there more? Do you, 'seriously', deserve more? Look at you...look at me...look at us, here, standing in our 'pride', our hubris, 'laughing, at the gods', as if we were divine!
Bend NOW, unto this mother here, that nursed us all, and fed us all, and clothed us...every one...and 'try to shed a tear', upon her sacred breast...that you have tromped upon! 'Try', to express, what we will miss...when she is no longer there, for us!
It is sad, to think...what 'harbors', in the human mind, that thinks itself...so far removed, from other kind, as all 'the brown eyed creatures, furred and fanged, and all the swimming, crawling things, and feathered flying...looked to us, as we were lying, set on 'leaving them behind'? They trusted us, these simple children. What do WE deserve? God only, knows. Some will miss their mother, so...which ones of us?
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico
Art: mother earth, refreshing the home, google pic
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