By Anissa Deol
The sand doesn’t feel the same under my feet.
I hear the ocean cry out for help as pain seeps into its body.
The moans are piercing my ears, just like the spikes from bottle caps that stick out from under the sand.
Big ice blocks fall from their homes and the polar bears fall to their deaths.
Clouds disappear from the sky as it turns black, and rain no longer falls from the sky.
Trees yell as their limbs are cut off and burnt.
“I didn’t even hear about that on the news!”
CRRRIIIIAACCKKKK, WOOOSSSHH, BLAM
It sounds like something out of a horror movie,
but it’s our horror movie.
“We still have seventy or eighty years.”
“Well, I heard it was only forty years.”
Cash in your bets and guesses, and let’s see how long we will live.
We can’t let go of the plastic that hugs our mouths and hands.
Nor the objects that move on four circles and spit pollution.
So, what’s your guess?
Because we’re running out of time.