In clouded air of manic justice, a dim sun rises in the east,
Casting questions in shadow on the grass cracked concrete.

Looking past the shadows end I see the colors of the world,
Organic blends of hue and glow are blurred by the wind.

An armored wind blown by the exhaust towers of industry,
Sneak into our lungs and we believe their lies in time.

With chemicals they cast a spell and drain our minds of artistry,
What will our kids say to the the mess they have made, or will they even notice.