The Dangerous Game Poem by Richard Randolph

Perhaps the world is a living thing,
and we are merely parasites living on it.
At first, so small and insignificant
no one could imagine our causing any real harm,
and so we fed on, greedily and without remorse
as parasites do, but now it has become clear
we have sickened the Earth almost to death.
Oh, it's a dangerous game parasites play,
slowly devouring their host all the while knowing
that when it dies, they must abandon ship or die, too.
Some are already searching the skies for another host,
but this merely indicates our desperate situation.
There are no viable alternatives,
and so we are finally beginning to realize,
what we should have known all along,
that our fates are tied together.
The only hope is to transform the relationship
from parasite and host to a child and its mother,
but that will require a more fundamental change in attitude:
The Earth can no longer be something we merely use;
it has to be something we love.