A Pome a Day for a Year

Sheer metal spokes from ground as needles
held together through spite
at mankind.

Taut vibrant lush lichen folds and swarms
over cracked concrete and sand
pulsating, thrumming, alive
and laughing.

Poisonous air hangs and surrounds and coats
and clings and infects lungs and cells,
bending them, breaking them and
remaking them in its own image.

Hollowed out houses shrink
wind howling through paneless holes
while chipped, flecked paint teeters on
the surface of glowing bricks,
falling away like broken skin.

Birds chirrup as bugs leap,
through snaked thickets and warped wood,
creating safe pockets of civilisation,
untouched by arrogant giants.

There is life, by god there is life,
life is not just the whirr of cars
or the bustle of offices,
or the arrogance of those bipeds
who crown themselves apex
and think all revolutions belong,
nay capitulate to them.