Those With Mansions In The Clouds Poem by Jesse Ellsbury

I see the cars,
we can’t manage them on earth
but we put them on Mars
and call it progress,
if we were honest,
we’d call it the horseman
of the apoc’lypse
but we’re not.

So chronically lie to your children,
tell them there’ll be space to live in
when they’re sixty-four.

For this is the time in which we sing
unsung,
the ladder unrung,
while the rope to the top
has been cut down
by those with mansions in the clouds.

For that was the time in which they lied,
and then is the time in which they’ll die,
while the time we die is now.