Can you draw spiral stars,
On the broadest daylight
Or maybe a mushroom,
On a slight dusky spring morning.
The world of artifacts,
With metals and rust and
Currents and power can.
Can you paint with blood and flesh,
The script of new face, -  blind parades of dead.
A spring morn with fluttering twigs for nest and next-
That day when her lips,
Filled with joy leaped to touch the sky,
Only metals and power,
Vanquished the laughter-
But sounds do never lost,
Haunt the birds that build nests.
Mushroom grew from the dust,
Spat blood on the throne of heaven,
That ended the spring,
With wintry rustle.
................................
Only a while ago,
As he looked up to the sky,
Heart sank and drowned,
As the airbus boomed atop.
For who knows,
What way life may turn.
Some uranium may sing his voice next,
Or some birds may sit on void perch.
The sound ceased, his heart thumped,
In the sounds of hustle bustle,
His sound lost enough,
To be heard, as the nest is empty.
For power and artifacts, we follow,
We walk to the scythe,
And little we know,
That we water seeds of extinction,
With more metals and salts of pride.