We chose not. 
For, The Pales' Source
chose us and our parent's parents
before both ours and their life's very conception.
Our collective response to this force?:
Canals stuffed by indexes,
eyes squeezed shut at headache-inducing might,
and the incessant, 24/7 harmonization of
"I cannot hear you, la la la" and "How dare you not lie to me?"
We've sung 'til throats are bloody and voices are hoarse and gurgled.
Such a course
excuse for "human" existence 
has so stubbornly and stupidly persisted
to generational lengths
to where we've accepted and even worshiped inconsistency
as being the only consistent.  
The Pale Source w/ No Remorse coaxed us
to cheer any and all dooms of survival and revival.
What this or that celeb did devours all constructive hours 
and efforts of our righteous rage.
Yet, those obsessing over fuels of fossils
and who, 
to your children's children are existentially hostile,
you've never considered your rivals.
Behold the Pales' Source, indeed,
especially when melanin-lacking 
beings
disperse, impose, impede,
and brutally enforce 
Ice Age ideals upon Mother of all man.
Hail the Stale Force!
For, without, pesky Winter wouldn't be slain
and July may not persist as it does now in December.
Irony is when "white" Poles stop reflecting the very infrared
capable of steaming them. 
Leaves now express seasonal confusions of their timbers. 
The Hell Snail hates 
hymns of seasonal, harmonic ebbs;
it drags little bloodsucker's scheduled period
way out until time once intended for Christmas dinner,
rosy noses,
and white wonderland splendor. 
The Hell Snail can't articulate why crude is still needed,
but, for its reliance 
and against all science,
we've begged it to force us to be compliant-- 
to make us resistant 
to what's widely available, effective, and efficient.
"I need my G-Class and designer goods?!," is what we've all, at one point, shrieked with bloody fervor--
us doing so while not realizing we've set multiple generations up for further murders.
Behold the Scaled Stork
who, like the Tenth Plague,
arrived to snatch the firstborn from ever happening.
For first bellows,
the wing-ed 
reptile's beak bears a mace-like cork.
'Tis a vein-shearing plug for all urgent Vagitus reports.
'Tis sinisterly demonic,
man and woman are no longer divinely harmonic.
Such a sad global trend stubbornly stands, currently, as chronic.
"How do I get everything from him, while contributing nothing reciprocal?"
is the perverse inquiry of most harlots.
And, equally destructive are the self-hating males
who pay for "respect" and OnlyFans toenail shots--
the societal rot consisting of those thinking acceptance could ever be bought.
Your willingness to fund the trashy
and her willingness to let you
is why love's value has been reduced to commercial profit. 
And, yet,
though we've ample justification to moan and fret
the current affairs,
we've almost all soared via the black of a jet
and the same as trains and automobiles,
so, we can upload to our reels,
for confirmation from strangers,
that we did, indeed, enjoy our trip to Phuket.  
"Living modest," we've preached, with cult-like conviction, 
"is the curse of those with not enough ambition."
We've worshiped bigger and bigger engines
and cursed those not interested in them with oppressive precision.
Meanwhile, wildfires in '26
have France and Spain
in complete submission.  
Traveling for the sake of showing others we've traveled,
rather than committing 
ourselves toward preserving those 
sacred mountains caps, beaches, forest, remote villages, pristine hillsides, snowy slopes, and clear water coves we took pictures next to
shows
we don't give a nanoscopic, subatomic, shite what becomes of the world we leave
for our children and their children's children. 
Solar panels are for tree-hugging lame-tards.
Electric cars are for non-alphas who gets no play.
Recycling is just for grade schoolers,
and if you do so as an adult, then, you're clearly girly or gay.  
A real man
sits up as high, goes as fast, and injects as much exhaust into once breathable air as he humanly can.
For him, truly, the women, without a second thought, should lay. 
If you have a compost
and don't discard the skins of the veg and fruit you peel or roast,
then,
you obviously just fell for that whole climate change hoax.
Therefore, now, we Hold the Pale Horse.
We nurse, caress, and cradle
the very same force 
running at the expense of catastrophic ecological dissent.
We're now complicit
in its process of ours and Mothers' divorce.  
As long as our grubby hands don't bear the guilty stains of tainted soil,
we'll help the world die if it means we finally get the Porsche.
To impress folks
who don't like us and who we don't even like,
we, as human collectives, damned any shred of shame or remorse. 
We, in repetitively repugnant unison, exclaimed to Mom with seething contempt: 
Us having to actually take our time while driving,
due to frost of November, 
we charged as a crime.
For, it should be sunny and 70 all year 'round, 
is what we determined in our all-knowingness. 
For, 'tis an inconvenience
to Sora-generated MP4s
of MLK and MJ stealing Halloween candy and promoting KFC dinners
and their glutenous data centers.
I see Canada looking like North Texas in July.
I see Italy looking more like Egypt
and Egypt looking more like other worlds not fit for the most basic of organisms.
I see the water 
becoming ruthlessly mandated and so precious
it becomes the subject of organized crime.
I see only one season, savagely stagnated--
no periods of restful dormancy, remission, or rebirth,
just a permanent, soul-sucking state of production 
for production's sake. 
I see time no longer being permitted
to appreciate the harvest 
nor the delicate processes from which it was forged.   
We read the warnings like weather reports,
nodded at the charts,
and went back to buying, building, and burning.
We traded tomorrow for a comfortable today.
We did not lose the world all at once.
It disappeared politely--
a season at a time,
a bird whose silence arrived
before anyone noticed
its absence.
Winter became a rumor
our grandparents insisted was true.
Children drew snow
from photographs,
as though illustrating ancient figures
or Leviathan kingdoms beneath the sea.
They laughed
at stories of breath
turning to ghosts
in the morning air.
Some still asked,
"When did this happen?"
As though catastrophe
arrived like lightning--
a single unbearable flash--
instead of millions
of ordinary moments
when comfort
won another argument
against responsibility.
"Behold a Pale Horse: And, his name that sat on him was Death."
He trots upon
the crimson ponds
covering all spaces where man used to be able to step. 
In our pitiful lust and pursuit for status down the Pale Trail,
we've strapped
our self-made, existential debts to Alpha and Beta's backs.  
In doing so, we offered our newborns' heads
to the ghostly steeds' rider's crimson-stained axe.  

From the Soul,

“We Hold The Pale Horse (Poem)” is a piece from my upcoming published anthology, “Return from the Pale Trail: Gifts to Humanity We’ve Been Taught to Forget.” I’m ecstatic to share this wonderful piece of literature with the family. I hope you all enjoy. Until then, feel free to check out my other published materials.