Every year, the night grows longer.
We all can feel the consequences.
It means the world to some,
Yet to others, is nothing more than another line on the teleprompter.

“Now, its four hundred thirty-eight.”
They read it like the daily weather.
As if there's no meaning.
Something immutable; an aspect of the world to simply let marinate.

But I have seen the ones who care.
Ecologists and anybodies.
All driven to terror.
Their grandchildren would have half the sunlit hours they did; who would not despair?

Yet I ask in jest. We know who.
The ones who eat our light away: they.
It must taste delicious.
From atop their towers, they rip away the very futures we lot pursue.

We know their names, and their menus.
Which part of our day they eat away.
We know where they all live.
So I wonder why I alone believe we should take from them what they need, too?