No trees grow here.
for my environment is unlivable.
A specifically cultivated outcome,
with extra care put into carelessness.
Regardless of ventures to gather foreign life.
There is no grass underfoot,
while I walk along the gravel.
Each step presses the shards deeper,
I do not pick it out.
I had time to plant flowers,
but chose to toil amongst buildings.
The sun on my face, artificial.
The warmth on my skin, borrowed.
Giving in to the light I created,
I betrayed myself for a feeling of familiarity.
It is when you look away,
the hues reduce,
and the burning fades,
when your field of vision returns to view,
that you see the scorched earth you have been left with.
This is the landscape I have made,
I will live in it alone.