Letter to Editors

Color becomes such gray hues
And Men become machines
Which too will one day fail
As is the course of things

No one stops to speak now
Caught up in a rampant race
To collect their little green tickets
The value of which is long forgotten

Clocks which were once friends
Look back ever so hesitantly
As if waiting on some saving face
Before marching forward into discord

The eternal cogs become ground
And metal falls unceremoniously
With no one to hear its sounds
Silence on a dirty, littered street

Where once the music was heard
There is instead shreiking and tears
The old hardware store closes its doors
Making way for automated monopolies

From a place where coffee dripped
Stands a man selling mechanized gadgets
Bargains for souls, he sells them by the dozen
No one questions his ethics, nor his grin

Not so long ago, before the world changed
Popcorn, Sodas and movies were still sought
And people still laughed their many laughs
Political strife was not always mixed with greed

Instead, now, Forests are for the wolves
No more trees are left for simply being seen
Cutthroats and con artists hauled away the green
Deadwoods left to rot, Their sap smeared in time

Help is a new four letter word
Which no longer exists on tongues
No one is coming to rescue or aid
Without the reward of a many dimes

Laugh, if you will, say it is not true
When Uncle Sam arrives in style 
He will surely take all that belongs to you
For pockets just as endless as his smile

Dystopia makes liars out of honest men
Breeds harlots out of Christian skin
All matters will belong among beasts one day
Before the ending of all things that were knew

Pocket watches which often told time
Now spell death and destinies of fate
Those without a dime, have no time
Their worth is subjugated and they are framed

Gray, Broken cites rise from the ashes of older towns
Their aim to reach the sky grew larger over years 
 No one told them that their zealousness cost lives
Not that men with bulging pockets have such fears

Yes, envision a place where air is harder to breathe
If air is what can be called of ever noxious gas
Shirts are worn for days without much washing
What water left for drinking makes the masses sick

The brink of existence rests in few hands
Their decisions make discord of the future
And the ones who could of stopped them
Were much too busy holding out their hands