Earth is on his deathbed.
I lumber through his withered veins,
hoping that if my warmth reaches far enough
he may recover from his wintry disposition.
But antibodies travel with me,
wreaking ruin as they pass through
each forlorn facility that his once regal body held.
It is unfair to call their arrival apocalyptic
for they were here from the beginning,
and so long may it continue.
Death is a fact of life,
just as repair is a reply to ruin.
Though Earth is in the Winter of existence,
I can't help but feel hopeful
of shaking off these litter-like blues
and seeing out one more