Ars gratia artis.
That's all that he knows
About life.
Called in to restore
Demographics,
Demolish the bleak
Overnight.

Repetitive claws
Of his fashion
Set up undeniable
Scratch.
How trendy it is!
Oh, how flashy.
Impossible
To outmatch.

Recover us, please,
Mother nature.
For his is
The meanest delight.
He once used to toddle:
Now crests us
In his own unhumble stride.

Forsake it,
Leave everyone bare.
He deals us as
Master of his trade.
We are stopped at nothing,
Forsake not.
Ain't Earth living art,
A hot spot.

My autumn leaves a trace
of cravings.
How nice
      to watch them plonk
                their bubbly blues.
There bitter
            meets the nagging,
Namely,
Grey collides
            with crimson spleen
                      of sour overdues.
                      
I treat them all
As seasonal and timely.
It's cool to feel
      what is corrupt
        in their shallow kinds.
There nastiest are marked
between the lines of mildly
            put regrets
                  as looming shades
Of glasses oozing wine.

It all has been at least concerning
But never even eaten me
a while.
To me
     there's no such thing
                              as tables turning.
To you
    it may as well seem only
             a breath of wind.