Ay, As I Thumb The Throttle

[@anacat77]

To not find sparkling overhead snow,
like an eternal December,
nor dusky skies where chilled winds blow,
that’s alien here.
We each get a glimpse of the landscape,
after the snowmobiles plow through,
spurring up a flutter that takes shape
as a powerful icy eruption.
The air is populated with dancing microbes
that hover and glide peculiarly,
like unsettled snow globes,
throughout all the islands’ air.
There is one exception to this way,
which is brought about by selfish ones
who spurred on their decay
to usurp all the lands so they could lay claim.
The snow they touch turns limp
and sleeps under plastic ice,
so it forgets to dance and primp
itself for times that it should flutter.
Ay, as I thumb the throttle of my ride,
I gaze upon my island home,
though March came early, I can’t decide
if I should abandon all I’ve ever known.
I close my eyes and pull the switch,
causing my vehicle to soar,
my rifle packed without a hitch,
to join the hunting on Pingor.
I arrive at their villainous base
as many scuttle away and shiver in fear
the twilight hides my face
but they know better than to draw near.
“Did you know there’s a world of narwhals
that shimmer under celestial auroras
and let out nightly mystical calls
to assemble with other unseen fonas?
You wouldn’t, would you,
after chaining them all to the sea floor,
while gnawing and thawing through
everything that I adore?
In a day of your world, we lost
a thousand dreams that went to burn,
but in a day of permafrost,
mother and son walruses joyfully adjourn!”
I traversed the archipelago,
bundled up in winter clothing,
I found it strangely warm here, though,
as vast blue heavens left the sun blistering.
However, many mounds gathered here
to form many mountains that reach
from their lazy bases to climb the sky,
each offering life and peace to breach.
This delicate expanse is met with
the puffing of the pingo rifles
as scientists shoot everything that moves,
not bothering with moral trifles.
They patrol when it’s 15° F
toting sampler energy cartridges
to spend on innocent inhabitants,
little critters living in the ridges.
If their deeds were water,
they could fill the world’s seas
and surender Svalbard
to live beneath them and never freeze.
To the scientists of life,
who think they’re so grand
and made a contract with chaos,
“On globe, all of you are small,” I reprimand.
Ay, as I thumb the throttle of my rifle,
I must be just like them,
simply fighting to survive but frightful
of whom nature will next condemn.
Suddenly, the fjord charges closer
with an earth-shattering crackle
frigid winds blow over
and all of us begin to scramble.
A sweeping chill freezes their energy,
rendering the chemicals useless,
and they all stared up and thus see,
with moony eyes, the wilderness.
The sky sneers down at them like mice,
while sending hail barreling down,
covering half the town in ice,
then belugas swam through town.
A cluster leading a journey to low Pingor
went to study their beeping polar epiphany
but the cores in the dome were tripped
in a vibrant exploding cacophony.
Now, I’m sure that all that remains
is mountainous rinds and craters
of the once-tainted plains,
also now bedridden of the curators.
Ay, I threw down all throttles
and ran for my life,
promising that Pingor and it’s rifles
would return to wildlife.