Waves of smashed rubble
Lie defeated beneath
A blanket of ivy.
Broad vales of bright
Wild-blossoms embrace
The steel altars.

Trees, like temples to
Passion, ascend upwards
From tar and muck.
They grow thick with
Leaves, and bear swathes
Of gleaming fruit.

Even as the gales
And rain-storms fall in waves,
The gentle forest prevails.
It is a sort of art:
In the end, Nature comes
To reclaim us all.

Smoke rises to greet
The distant veil of storm-clouds
Over silent streets.

The blackbirds sang throughout midday
Beneath a sky of white and grey.
The people heard their gentle muse
Between the ads and evening news.

One long day bled into night
Whereby the call of the moonlight
Danced and laughed the night away
'Til nightly folks were led astray.

Along, the smoke was blown beyond
The city-smog and withered fronds
Of ravaged trees across the land
Where once the city didn't stand;

And as the sun began to rise
A distinct welling in their eyes
Told them that they weren't so wrong
For listening to the blackbirds' song.

The cold metal door
Squeeaaaks
And swings to the wall
In a thump of agony.

Lever-action. The bolt
Cliiiicks
To the hammer, before the
Brittle door-shavings

Rocket outwards in a
BANG!
Metal shatters like laminate.
In a way, its like

The spirit.

Away, the distant gales bring
The noblest trees to weeping.
Far above the valleys sweeping,
Isolated church-bells ring.

Beyond the brittle urban winds
Of cities never sleeping,
A mute and mournful nightly breezing
Sweeps the moon upon its wings.

Somewhere cold and far away.

Peace is never truly lost
It merely doesn't stay.

Raptured by the valley-frost
Into the veiled sea of grey:
Often gone, but never lost.

Simply weeping

Far away.

Neon actresses
Dance and sing in the cold night
Atop concrete domes.

Over on the crescent wing
The bitter gales bring waves of rain:
Listen. Frozen windows sing.
Enraptured by the searing pain
Like pestilence in hurricane.
Buildings rise up to the halls
Impenetrable planet-bane
As summer lost, and spring withal.

Then the writhing storm-clouds bring
A storm of ice and wind again:
The sun rears up, but sets during.
And past the steel-laden plane
Silver orbs first wax, then wane
Then plaster to the mighty wall
Midnight buses, lane-by-lane,
Of nature not, but city fool.

Ascended like a spiteful King
The whispers rise, then sink in shame
No sound is here, no, not a thing.
Soaking in like liquor-stains
The buildings survey their domain
Not city-life, nor life at all;
They wander in the pouring rain
Where love is lost beneath the sprawl.

Tears and laughter, much the same
All are whispers, doomed to fall.
Dystopia without a name:
Not so distant after all.