Iowa 2095 Poem by John F. McCullagh

The farmer stooped and took a scoop of soil into his hands.
It was dry and lifeless, less like topsoil than like sand.
On the far horizon a darkling cloud of dust was seen.
Another year without a crop, the times were worse than lean.
Human beings are full of pride, the sin that caused our fall,
sure that, as populations grew, that we could feed them all.
The forests shrank, the deserts grew, and erosion claimed the soil.
Then the crops began to fail all across the world.
Hunger stalks this once rich land, so many lives erased
So many children dead and gone the shovels can't keep pace.
Is this the end once prophesied, the apocalypse indeed.
Once the seed corn's been consumed, hope is a slender reed.