Its death is slow and painful.
A grinding end.
Pushing toward progress,
pushing toward life—
Until it can’t go further.
Its heart: a motor sputtering.
Each breath becomes a tortured
grinding of the gears.
Still, the beast endures.
Ever industrious—
fueled by a hunger it cannot name,
a need that corrodes from the inside out.
An unrelenting drive.
The creature marches forward,
bleeding oil into oceans,
Crying tears of acid
that burn as they fall.
Days blur into nights,
Decades into centuries.
Seeking. Searching. Needing.
It cannot name what drives it.
Desperate for sustenance,
the ailing creature feeds—
Roaring like an engine,
Bloated and distended—
But the hunger never fades.
It continues feeding.
Yet for the wretched creature,
consumption is no cure.
At last, the great beast falls.
Catastrophic system failure.
The forward march of progress
halts.
Here now it lies—
skin slack over brittle bone,
ragged breath extinguished.
Like a hiss of steam,
the final exhale dissipates.
A factory abandoned.
No movement. No light.
The whirring of machinery—
Forever stilled.
And yet—here in death,
Is there meaning to be found?
Could it be that this life has only started?
Not a forest fire, but a controlled burn.
Is there purpose here, where before,
there was none?
As hours stretch into days,
the body cracks and splits,
And its softness and warmth is a haven
for the flies that feed and burrow.
For the vultures that descend on the feast.
For the mushrooms that sprout from the bones.
As the hours stretch into days,
old flesh becomes new
at this harvest table.
Rich and dark the soil grows
and nourishes the roots of little things,
green and fresh.
These creatures have gathered here,
Not as mourners, but celebrants.
In time, they too will rest,
Returning to the earth to
feed the ones that follow.
Its life was long and painful
Spent seeking ever more,
Walking ever forwards,
With hunger never sated.
But here in its final moments,
Life springs anew.
Featured Image Source: Ava Tsarynnyk
