Burning Eden

VERSE ONE

The glaciers weep in reverse now, love—

their tears pooling in the cracks of your coffee cup.

You sip the meltwater of a dying epoch,

while cities drown in hashtags and apathy.

Remember when fire was a metaphor?

Now it licks California’s throat like a lover,

and we scroll past the smoke,

our thumbs calloused from swiping left on the end times.

PRE-CHORUS

Don’t call it “climate grief.”

Call it reckoning.

The sky isn’t falling—it’s screaming.

Can you hear it?

Can you taste the ozone on your tongue?

CHORUS

We are the arsonists and the architects,

the matchstick kids who lit our own fuse.

Tattoo this truth on your ribcage:

Every flame holds a fingerprint.

Burn brighter.

Burn truer.

This is how we remake the world.

VERSE TWO

They sold us plastic salvation,

promised us Eden in a Tesla frame.

But the oil in our veins still whispers more, more, more—

a hunger even billionaires can’t tax away.

You think your guilt biodegrades?

Check the landfill of your conscience:

microplastics of shame, styrofoam vows,

and a receipt for the future you bought on credit.

BRIDGE

I’ll be the dandelion cracking the parking lot,

the stubborn green fisting through concrete.

No, we won’t go gentle—

we’ll rage, recycle, rewild.

Watch us:

turning carbon into poetry,

pollution into protest signs.

Our lungs are not landfill.

SPOKEN WORD INTERLUDE

You ask, “What’s the point of planting trees I’ll never sit under?”

Then become the seed, not the shade.

Become the root, not the rot.

They’ll call you naïve, a hashtag activist—

let them.

Naivety built the pyramids.

Naivety walked on the moon.

VERSE THREE

We stitch solar panels to the sky’s open wounds,

pray to turbines with arms wide as prophets.

The earth isn’t begging for your tears—

it’s demanding your hands.

So dig.

Plant mangroves where the oil rigs bled,

rewrite the atlas with flood-resistant ink.

This is our alchemy:

ash into aquifer, panic into policy.

CHORUS

We are the arsonists and the architects,

the matchstick kids who lit our own fuse.

Tattoo this truth on your ribcage:

Every flame holds a fingerprint.

Burn brighter.

Burn truer.

This is how we remake the world.

MUSICAL BREAK

(A distorted harmonica wails like a wildfire siren, drums mimic collapsing ice sheets, then a sudden hush—a single violin, fragile as the last polar bear’s breath.)

OUTRO

So when they carve our epitaph in acid rain,

let it read: “Here lies Generation Pyro—

they didn’t stop the blaze,

but they learned to dance in the flicker.”

Now tilt your head back, breathe the fractured air,

and sing—not a requiem, but a reclamation.

We are the fever. We are the antidote.

Welcome to the burn.

A/N

For the kids clutching fire extinguishers and futures. Sometimes the world needs arson—just aim your flames wisely.