It was an age of black holes and burning
cathedrals, where starving are left to rot
by Midas and his well-worn gloves, spurning
fields of wilted not-quite forget-me-nots.
Golden caresses for foreign fires
pour in like the still leaden Flint water.
There are millions of crumbling spires--
the victims of negligent manslaughter
whose architecture will not be restored.
Unable to bear the plight of the ground
cameras point at the sky to ignore
Dante's Inferno--and look what they found!
A mirror of our rampant consumption,
purer than us--for that's it's sole function.
