The Wasting Age
Prosperity reigned, at least until it didn’t
In the final century of promise, hope still remained
The world heaved and hoed but always seemed to find balance
Mountain rivers lazily flowed, comfortable and cool
New life still whispered gloriously in the spring
And when the rains fell, the ground lapped up the sweetness
Even when something went awry, no one panicked
The horizon still looked steady, and so did our outlook
Even when the air grew thinner and tasted acidic
Only later did we realize that we missed all the signs
Allowed our own sense of situational control to mix the signals
Some mistakes can’t be undone, and trust hope was our demise
Now those who remain stand watch as it unravels
Cracked classroom windows, flickering screens, and despair
And that booming silence that a dying world makes
The third world is but a ghost map, memories of nations swallowed by dust
Borders erased by the hunger of the sun and human carnage
Names lost to the swirling caustic winds
Even those who cared to listen, cared too late
Yet still, we play pretend while watching turbulent skies
We rationalize that their absence is a natural thinning
Earth pruning humanity’s overgrown branches
All the while knowing that the soil speaks the only truth that matters
It remembers every drought, every dried root, each withered field
And as the world crumbles around them, the rich remain unthirsty
Their walled gardens lush, almost tropical; kept safe under glass
Clean air drifts through electronic scrubbers
Fresh water pulled effortlessly from private cisterns deep underground
Meals taken on enclosed balconies, high above the common lands
While they toast the efficiency of a world that serves them first
Gold-plated oxygen masks hang from their walls, like hunting trophies
More proof that they have conquered even the right to breathe
Despite the world around them starving, their power devours the last scraps
Just as hungry beast devours its own tail for survival
Outside their gates, we walk through landscapes bleached of memories
Thousand-mile stares replaying better times and better outcomes
Barren lands where forests once stood like elder guardians
Now merely blackened skeletons of useless charcoal
Ancient beaches now revealed in thick white crusts of salt
Our biggest fear became our biggest surprise; the ocean never rose
Falling sea levels, lands curling inward, life retreating into stagnant wounds
That trusted pulse of life, once vibrant, now harbors death and decay
Twos and threes gather together, grasping what little remains
Rusty cans of who knows what, drops inside a plastic bottle,
A handful of grain scraped from towering siloes, our final act of hope
The learnings came much too late, at least for the everyday people
Starvation coming from the lack of food, but also from the absence of mercy
Moving at night under the copper-gray bruise of a chemical sky
Some say south, others north, in the end it won’t matter
The looming question our ancestors feared is now front and center
Is this how a world ends?
Not in fire, nor ice, but from the quiet arithmetic of greed
When the powerful keep subtracting those on the outside
Adding none, until the only remainder is their few numbers
This age of humanity, this wasting age is the final scorecard
Yet despite their positions, they cannot outrun the truth
Delay perhaps, but Mother Earth still makes the rules
Every poisoned river, every silenced nation, every life sacrificed
Verses written in the ink of eternity, in a script older than any empire
Soon, very soon, when the last vault door closes, the last filtered breath is taken,
Manicured gardens crumbling into chaff, and the dust settles in
They too will finally see, they will finally understand
No fortress is strong enough to hold back the collapse of a world
One ravaged and carved hollow by their greed and ambition
And in that hollowing, in that echoing chamber of what once was,
One final human voice will rise, whispering soft as the falling dust,
fragile as a leaf that never had the chance to grow,
A message only the stagnant wind will ever hear
The signs were everywhere, why didn’t we listen…
Additional Reading
R.J. (Ralph) Schwartz is an American poet, author, website owner, and online publisher. His writing spans several poetry collections—ranging from spiritual and romantic to fear-driven explorations—and even extends into science fiction. Notable works include:
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Hope – Inspirational and Spiritual Poetry
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Things That Go Bump in the Night – Poetry of Fear and Fright
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The Lover’s Thread – Poetry for Couples
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Poetry of the Human Condition – The Ups and Downs of Modern Living
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The Secrets of the Moon (a sci-fi novel co-authored with his son Sebastian J. Schwartz)
Schwartz’s work is described as purposefully wordy, richly descriptive, and thematically grounded in nature, romance, antiquity, and forgotten histories. He writes regularly on platforms he manages, including The Creative Exiles, a collaborative venue for writers, and The Gypsy Thread, which delves into offbeat histories, pagan lore, and poetry.
- How To Deal With Frost on Your Pumpkin Patch - March 25, 2026
- The Awakening of Earth – A Poem of Springtime - March 18, 2026
- The Republic of Perpetual Outrage - March 7, 2026
