we had beauty once

everything was art
and we carried about how,
why, what it looked like
in the end

now all we have is
crap

plastic shells on
plastic souls
make hallow sounds like
empty buckets aching
for water to fill
them

there is no art
there is no purpose

there is nothing
but the desert
and
our fading tracks in
the sand

we had beauty once

it was all grand
and our childhood was
well-deserved and
yet to run off into
the
sunset