The sun it hides behind the smog

Afraid to nurture anymore

The streams now laugh in dark humor

And birds are but for urban carrion

The seasons have turned schizophrenic

Their pass bereft of identity

We have never built, merely destroyed

We are guilty of raping

Our mother

We have milked her dry,

And now we are wasted

In the rot that remains

In the dregs

That are but a reflection

Of men

Victims not of circumstance

As the make themselves to be

But that of their decadence

And being a part of the antimovement

Is just not

My cup of tea