Tungsten

Man thinks he owns this world.
Man thinks the river flows so smoothly, the crop grows so well,
the animal scampers in the forest, because
he gave it permission to.
Because he owns the land he breaths through
the benevolent overlord of the wilderness.

Man is a fool.

He builds higher and higher, bigger and bigger,
destructing his ground he lives through
and calling this construction 'better'.
'If we can't tame the wilderness,
let's destroy it!'

'Build the tower higher, build it higher,'
He wants his enemies to see it soar over his land
(why would anyone construct enemies?)
'Build the tower higher, build it higher,
(build it higher than we ever hoped to dream).'

'Let's build great lights atop our cities
and set great fires ablaze to carve our wood
so all of Earth can see our good works!'
What he doesn't say is that
he does that to convince himself that
he is bigger than he really is,
that he isn't so fragile
that his mother earth may snuff out his
weak candle of a body.

He drapes the Earth in a thousand webs of shimmering tungsten

to trap in insecurities and uncertainties,
like, 'Maybe planets don't revolve around our breaths',
like, 'Maybe the sky would carry our underground
if only we weren't there to tie it down',
but in all honesty,

if anything he blots out the stars.