There was a beacon,
mindlessly broadcasting to the cosmos,
when the world ended.
The creators of the beacon
had long been consumed
by the planet they destroyed:
but they built a beacon
to broadcast their folly
to the cold,
and uncaring,
universe.
It had been an amazing evolution:
so much promise,
so much brilliance,
stellar opportunity
for a toddling species
in the infancy of realised potential.
The creators carried baggage with them
through their evolution.
They carried hatred, brutish tribalism,
false and evil gods,
distrust, suspicion, and
the strange desire to exploit,
to subjugate others.
War was relatively continuous
throughout their history.
Battles, banners, songs of patriotism,
and vengeful gods:
empathy and altruism stood suspended.
In their rush to enrich the few,
and enslave the many,
this species took all they could
from dwindling resources
with no thought of consequence,
only reward.
The reward came in the form
of catastrophic climate change,
and while factions argued cause,
a karmic pendulum had swung.
They programmed the beacon
to tell the stars our story,
but the stars didn’t care.
And neither did we.
