If only Al Gore had won…

by Tom Ayling

A pool of tears collect
beneath the eyes of her British Isles.
They swim and reflect
the dawning of men.
As her twisting pupils dilate,
she strikes a monstrous blow
from the fists of her United States.

An internal conflict she seeks.
An appetite for self-destruction so dire
that as she weeps,
an island is gone,
alongside twelve-thousand innocents.
And the loss of her innocence
is defined by an angry aperture
in her atmosphere

Thus, slowly, she loses her grip
on the fuel that sustains her sanity.

When she is fallen to her knees,
she is ours for the taking.
Coal, oil, wood, we plunder as we please.
Little do we know
the mistake that we are making.