Cycles (The Prosecution)

The Sun arcs toward the West
The tides sway in, and out, and in
The blood in my body- the breath of my bones
Concentrates
And flows

Flowers in the meadow
Blossom and spread their seeds in time
In rhythm with the seasons

Even the clouds,
The inconstant clouds,
The symbols of wanderlust!
Come and go at no whim
But the whim of timed movements.

These creatures of nature abide simple rules.
Their revolutions through time make what we see
What we are
Possible
Yet Humanity,
Seemingly destined (or desperate) to break the mold,
To desert the ancient ways before them and shake their fist at the Mighty Above,
Have failed.
Everything they make,
Everything they touch,
Dies.
It ends up rusty, or town down, or lost, or burned away.

All that they create is unnatural, however.
There may be hope for mankind still.

Abandon your short-lived constructs
Frivolous and flawed
Return to my cyclical beat
From which you have yawed.

Author's Note

This is part one of two for a concept I'm working on. The premise is that the deities that made the universe, or at the very least earth, are fighting over what to do with Humanity at this point in our evolution. They have a sort of hearing, and this is the prosecutor's stance.