Who Looks Anymore

Who looks to the trees anymore,
Creations coated in pillows of moss
As dew settles upon their bodies
Like the stars upon the heavens,

Who weeps anymore,
As they gaze to distant sight
The ocean blues
The curling bodies of water,
Embracing the minutness of self
The insignificance of I,
The mere squirm of existence we be.

As we shoulder
The problems we have wandered into,
As if it be the end of all,
Though the world spins
Orbits about a burning flame
A perfectly cohesive doing,

Who trembles anymore,
At the awe of all,
The stillness of life
It be, it moves, it grows,
And we be not desinger of such.

Does anyone hug the ideals of beauty,
Of forgiveness
Of lord,
Of creation.

Or are we settled in the shallow
The flickering screens between our hands
As we thumb our words
Little spoken in voice,
Empty hallways
Empty streets and yards,

Laughter of summer neighbors fading,
Youth, crawling upon idols of fame
Like flies to feces
And not even the death of one
Breeds fear to walk away,
So continues the tongues upon the pile
Upon the rot, upon the filth,

Does anyone smile,
Though be broken
As they look to the crowd
For bitter may be today,
But another has lost a love,
Lost what was a story
Expected to bare no end
Yet here it be
Like the edge of a chapter, a book.

Its end known,
But each new page
Is as if it shall always be.

Does anyone think better of anything
That be not of man,
Or are we doomed in the dirt
We have poisoned.