Lucy topped extension English in the HSC. This is what she wrote

She weaves her personal masquerade,
a silky curse,
a tragedy for all of mankind.
Their very personal knife that rocks,
nearer and nearer to their lifeline,
dangling by a thread.
***

Act I: A Tightening

Cumuli spill from unexpectedly constructed towers,
suffocating a collage of crammed London homes.
Progress by manufacturing
intone industrial males who spin
increasingly of this synthetic vapour,
deaf to the poisoned coughs
of their manufacturing unit line.

“Thanks for the chance to current…”

Panicked shouts try and douse the hearth,
hidden by a smog of company lies
that muffle the agonized screams of tuberculose males
and burning cities
and dying Earth.

All to heat the soles of fats males,
hidden behind a display,
as their fire slowly puffs
a gaseous Pandora’s field.
“I want to draw three principal conclusions…”

The cloud drifts now,
a trespasser,
into my once-naïve valley,
the place wild hills are combed into order
and vines are
crucified on wire,
worshipped by farmers as they die
and are available alive,
to the whim of the auburn filth.
Stored by the desert within the west,
ocean to the east,
mountains to the north.
“This time interval is an actual warming pattern…”

The place now the smoky lava settles
into highlands and gorges,
thickened by the winds that rustle
by way of each tv set.
A shroud for the younger to mourn
the grass that crunches,
the desiccated dams,
the starved roos smeared vividly
on melted tar.

Might the screams not ring too lengthy,
could the embers not catch gentle,
could our souls be steeled
for the hearth that smoke brings.

“It’s altering our local weather now…”

For right here it comes,
in flesh,
a molten path oozing down the ridge
right into a tinderbox of angst.

I conceal in a brick kiln,
as soon as a home,
the sky a swirling black,
burnt eucalypt pungent in my nostril.
Too late to flee,
bracing for farewell,
a Gretel ready to be devoured.

But, there may be one very last thing,
a broomstick to journey our captor
a path of crumbs to observe,
a telephone to summon a purple truck,
fighters aboard to assist.
“Lower than a one p.c likelihood…”

So, I hope
and I hope
and I hope
and I hope
and I hope
and I hope

Act II: A Sinking

“The world would go on a lot the identical…
now we all know that’s not true.”

Lifeless bushes stand by and by,
strung up by black ropes,
twisted and ugly.
A body for the forest that recedes,
changed by a synthetic weave of little packing containers
and Colourbond.

The bus crowded and shouty,
aircon on the drip.
Headache swells with the air that strains,
to carry the following act upon its stage.
And certain sufficient,
the comfortable clouds raise to disclose
the gray, teeming sky.

There’s a pause,
a silence,
an inhale,
because the conductor raises his batton
and it begins.

If thunder had been to be alive,
he wouldn’t be indignant
sweaty
raging
ferocious.

He’s sadder than that.
He has been betrayed.
Let down.
And I can see the earth contort
because it mirrors his furrowed brows.

Unhappy.
Pensive.
Maybe stabbed within the again – is that why he
bellows so?

Image him now,
kneeling within the sky “Et tu, Brute?”
cradling his bloody wound,
crawling slowly from the dagger,
lamenting his destiny.

Maybe he bellows for the Earth,
who is simply too type to see,
too treasured,
too delicate
to do something however be raped by these she beloved.

Who bulldoze her forests
stripping her bare.
Who dig holes in her facet
letting her bruise and welt.
Who worship fossil fuels
placing a poisoned rag to her mouth.

The bushes preserve streaming previous,
the sky ashened
the thunder begins to rumble loud and quick.
The rain begins to pelt,
Is it punishing us for what now we have executed?
Or is it merely simply tears?

Tears of the bushes,
Tears of the mountains,
Tears of the birds,
Who witness this tragedy
silenced and condemned.

Do they weep for his or her kids
whose future is naked?
Do they weep for his or her properties
that are not there?
Do they weep as a result of
their hearts tear?

Tear for the depraved,
tear for the blessed,
tear for the meek.

After which the lightning begins,
One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three Mississippi.

“Look right here, look right here,” it appears to cry.
“Right here and right here, look can’t you see?”
“Look what you’re doing?”
“How will you?”
“How will you?”
It shouts in flurried blurts.

One Mississippi.
Two Mississippi.
Three Mississippi.

“You need to cease,
you should cease,
oh, can’t you see!

The ravenous fields,
the withered brooks,
the open scabs,

the bruising lands.
You need to cease,
you should cease!”

And within the midst of the college child chatter,
I look out into the bushes
and homes
and paddocks.
I really feel the earth weep,
the sky weep,
the bushes weep.

So,
I weep,
for the damage,
for the Earth,
for the longer term.

Then with a sudden lurch and hiss,
the bus doorways spring open.
The sky returns to a cheery type of blue
I step right into a puddle
and trudge down previous the rusted barb fence
to my mom’s silver automobile.

The clouds disperse once more.

Act III: A Numbing

“I referred to as the specter of international warming,
the “biggest hoax ever perpetrated on American individuals.”

I:
Eyes vivid,
break from sleep,
creep down the corridor,
to the place frightened questions bubble,
hearts yearn and mouths lie,
kindling a haze into as soon as all-seeing eyes.

Exterior a silvery disc hangs,
like a telescope inverted.
An owl’s tune is damaged by the squeals of tyres,
as the rubbish truck begins its night time crawl,
selecting up Autumn’s trend
as spring air tendrils by way of the road.

II:
In company,
at an oak varnished desk lined by the leather-based seats,
fits negotiate reclined.
Bargaining treasured land,
embroidered with asteroids,
behind a flooring to ceiling window,
particularly designed to gaze onto fertile fields but to be signed.

Baritone murmurings
crescendo
spherical desk,
“fifteen p.c!” – the fits start an appraisal.
silence then noise,
the supply is disabled.

Ready for fits to settle their inventory,
watching the outdated ticking clock
with milky eyes.
Worries flock and contort
at interlock.

III:
Previous the constructing’s shadow that preys on the valley,
to the rolling hills that use to ripple,
bald by tractors that plough up and down,
it stumbles beneath the whip,
that tries and tries to flail extra life.

Creeks mull empty of their creases,
noticed by kangaroos looking for water,
subsequent to arduous hats surveying for dirty stone.

Recollections stir,
of hillsides jagged by cow tracks,
and tumbling onto river plains,
and working again to do it once more,
to the shrieks and shrills of enjoyment.
Now turned to powdery filth,
beneath the tramp of dairy cows.

IV:
If just one may wait
quietly in earthy tessellation,
a fraction of galaxy
moulded into filth.
Deaf to chants of hysteria,
whispers that cry the Earth’s finish defiantly.
To be a rock,
silent,
nonetheless,
immovable.

Overturned and careless,
as they discover their bounty
and plan the kill.

Act IV: A Sobbing

“Now we in all probability don’t also have a future any extra…”

Knee size grass,
possibly taller,
billows within the autumnal breeze,
ripples the coats of kangaroos
that laze half hidden,
scattered like gumnuts
dropped from poisoned bushes,
the surviving few clotting
their cream-coloured bark,
darkish streaks already congealed.

The fox trots previous,
pausing to learn the wind,
its night listing.

Chills settle into the folds of the land,
the glassy dam
half empty now
smudged solely by
treading water bugs.

Vineyards stretched out to the sky
like washing frolicked to dry,
The mountains past,
silent
nonetheless
defending
pierced solely by a telecommunications tower
to entertain the stranger.

At peace within the gold of the solar’s final hour,
the monotone winter threatening.

Bulldozers are right here now,
tar has been combined.

I see the mild wisps of cloud
slowly steaming from behind
the ridgeline,
floating elsewhere now.
Your soul’s launch.

Should you actually return
to your lone carbonic chains?
In photons and atoms will you keep in mind
once you had been certain to the Earth,
The place you held me in eucalypt embrace?
Or are you destined to float memoryless?

Forgotten might be:
the grasshoppers that ricochet,
from bleached grass grown,
from umber filth
rendered infertile,
helpful now
for employee ants marching at all times to pebbled castles.

Tomorrow,
they shall be no extra,
solely fluoro shirts
and development fence,
marching at all times
for the sweetness of cash.

O, my heaven,
my happiness,
my residence.

The tormented prayers,
the shrieks
and rages,
the betrayal of destiny
then you definately nurtured hope.

Or did I sow inexperienced stalks,
in your sunburnt valley?
Did you pause for me
to summon bravery?
To be taught to heal your weeping wounds?

Have been you gone the day I ran,
colourless from a snake?
The day I sat silent
as we determined to relocate?

Then you definately turned your again on me,
or was it I to you?

And now I’ve returned,
and so have you ever,
within the eleventh hour we stand
two dying beings.
Looking for consolation in one another’s arms
slowly
slowly
sinking
into time.

Maybe it isn’t too late
to fetch a department and pull you
from the swirling waters of financial achieve.
However the albatross hangs
from my neck –
too heavy.
Too late.

I shall stand and wait
as you scream
and flail
and gurgle
till limpness claims you.

Brief,
painful,
grievous to the top.

Possibly we will meet once more,
will we keep in mind one another –
the traitor
and
the murdered?

***
Shrivelled on her throne,
She knits the final of her spell
as males hurry back and forth,
her identify misplaced from their lips,
as they attempt to construct normality
in inventory charges and
crude oil and
zero internet emissions.

She languishes alone,
lungs mouldy and laboured,
tears soften from boring, scratched eyes.

Peace choices are considered,
guarantees for higher,
pledges to heal.

However the sword’s tether splinters,
Her head lolls again,
And
it
plunges
down.

A cracking of the chest.