As far as we know, we'll be the first cognizant earthling species aware of our own lingering extinction as our increasingly dysfunctional remains crawl in the lands and waters of our self-sickened biosphere on this suffocatingly trashed planet. It isn't in the nature and history or tradition of those with the resources to turn that around to do so, realistically. And they haven't and won't.
Life can't survive on words in the air or on bits of paper, no matter how handsomely strung. Despite consistent warnings and wailings of alarm along this trail, we've been on a collision course with our own nature and against that of the rest of the planet, and universe, for millenia.
Like individual material mortality, the markers of our demise are imprinted indelibly in our genes en masse. Who truly wants to be among the last standing? No pizza delivery. No french pastries. No chain grocer with chem-laden milk and bread. No taxi to the train to the emptied theatre. No ducks to feed at the pond. No feed to string along the sad weeds poking through strangled ground for a sun and stars too searing.
Nanoseconds left for what we truly love.
But why chant my song for satan's spawn/ that can't read or hear it,/ damned to ignore the beauty at our feet/ for borrowing from a bank/ to buy wild violets./ It may be the white man's place/ ordained to end the human race,/ which for his final sorrow does include him/ chipping away at the grave's image/ to reveal the form of God.
God's will be done, God's kingdom come here on earth as in heaven.
Enters a dog fetching holy texts/ from the caves of Ethiopia/ as roaches devour man's dust.