poetinnyc

imagine this:
us, walking barefoot through the wreckage of melted roads
the sun carving epitaphs into a sky too scorched for rain.

They say the world was once wider, 
measured in scraped knees and firefly nights, 
in the space between streetlights, 
where time was counted in the hush before dinner. 

They call us the lost generation, 

but how can we be lost when we see everything? 

We inherited the ruins, 

the sins of the past like notifications, 

the echoes of greed carved into policy, 

With voices like flint against steel,
we strike against the silence,
catching fire – not to burn, but to blaze a path forward.
We are not the dying cinders of something lost,
but the first furious glow of something rising.

TikTok scrolling, climate warming,
Ocean rising, forests burning,
AI whispering, futures shifting,
Polar ice caps, glaciers drifting.