What will happen when there is nothing left to see

The light plays through the closed bamboo blinds, blocking the heat.  I watch the patterns shift on the wall above the bed.  The sun as it slides into it's evening pocket has been brutal today, but the light play on the wall has enchanted me and I forgive.  The slide of day into dusk through the changing pattern is poetry.  I am alive to see this.  I am conscious that it even it exists.  And miles away killing oil is pumping into the ocean.  The greed machine grinds away.