Fate of Progress.

We pretend progress
is inevitable.
We have infinite aims
and finite resources,
though, so how
can that be sustainable?

All our eggs in one basket,
our looming extinction.
All of us deafened
to the dirge song
being sung as we happily
dig our graves.

A chorus of orphans
and their cautionary tales
serve as the soundtrack,
a maelstrom
of morbid melodies,
and now perhaps us,
a candidate voice
to join the echoes,
to stretch
out throughout time
and space, another vault
sealed in the cosmic
catacomb,

or you think
we could maybe dodge
the blade,
cut down to size
but survive?