Planetary Bloodwork
[Verse 1] Doctor came in quiet, clipboard like a verdict in his hand.
Said, "Vitals still registering, but the spectrum's out of band."
Fever in the understory, a murmur where the currents used to sing,
a pale, receding moon where the wild things disappear on silent wing.
[Pre-Chorus] Everybody's counting what turns a profit, nobody's logging what keeps the patient solvent.
[Chorus] Bad cholesterol rising. Good cholesterol gone. Heart monitor beeping out a very old song: Too much of one kind of life is a very expensive kind of death.
[Verse 2] Fields went full barcode, meadows traded wings for rows.
Insects filed for quieter hours, frogs rang the bell that no one chose.
Pastures packed with identical bodies, hoof and feather, feedlot bred,
bad fats stacking in the ledger, cheap abundance thick as dread.
Bees were tiny hospice nurses carrying sweetness cell to cell—
now the chart looks so productive, and the hive's gone still.
Too many cows, pigs, chickens—cheap calories dressed as gain,
bad cholesterol of plenty pressing steady in the vein.
While the blue-heart hunters vanish—silver currents running thin,
orcas ghosting empty oceans where the balance once lived in.
[Pre-Chorus] Quarterly reports glow greener than the graves, "Growth!" they cheer—while the patient misbehaves.
[Chorus] Bad cholesterol rising. Good cholesterol gone. Heart monitor beeping out a very old song: Too much of one kind of life is a very expensive kind of blight.
[Bridge] Call it harvest. Call it progress. Call it feeding seven billion trembling hands. Soil remembers every debt we leveraged, oceans keep receipts in sinking sands. A body can look full on the spreadsheet, still be starving at the core— elegant, efficient, and quietly at war.
Not dead. Not empty. Just dangerously rearranged.
[Verse 3] Pollinators critical, songbirds in the red, native shadows thinning where the old growth used to spread. Doctor taps the tablet, almost gentle, says, "There's still time—if balance is the drug no machine has ever loved."
[Final Chorus] Bad cholesterol rising. Good cholesterol gone. Heart monitor beeping out a very old song: Too much of one kind of life is a very expensive kind of wrong.
[Outro] Earth's bloodwork came back— numbers strange, not terminal, just changed. Not dead. Not empty. Just dangerously rearranged. (Not dead… not empty…)