The wind’s flaming sword
cut through the brazen land,
grasses along its wrath are flared,
and seeds for the songbird
fell flat on the ground,
temperature’s tune seems amplified,
360 degrees around: Baked clod.
And the stems turn into dried sticks,
they’re victims of pestilence on dead weeds,
where the dream for the Garden of Eden
seeps through time that soon be forgotten.
No longer the bees gather nectar,
but worms infest the withered flower,
abandoned honey comb left hanging drier,
and heat everywhere seems forever.
Where the sky above is made of smog,
acid rain falls from perforated ozone like fog,
poisoning everything, even a venomous bullfrog,
yet those factories continuously vomit deadly gasses,
causing the sky’s death and death to the grasses,
in the end: Death to human beings