through years and tears
  tiny arrows spinning round and
    round insignificant numbers on
       a flat face, staring back at me.  
         a field of wild grasses and flowers
           only followed by another single
              field, no rolling hillsides
             but only industrialism,  
         mindless materialism
      that numbs you so softly
   and slowly
you barely
notice
it

already

has
happened.