Through the wooden doors,
The streets seem infinitely silent
with but a few sounds,
The Humming of birds,
There mutated forms twisted
Filled with molecular grains of plastic,
Sit to watch me enter the barren streets beyond,
Their churping frequencies distorted, sound like screeching cats at night,
.....
A million years has passed,
Since the first dawn of the material they call plastic was produced,
For centuries machines elaborately
marveled in their designs of products,
Mostly made with plastics,
From deep within the earth, black crude was infinity extracted,
But today non remains, but in its place desolation,
.....
Though the day was shiny,
Diamonds seem to scatter through the sky,
Though in reality dusts of plastics have fused deep into Atmospheres grains of its back bone,
I breathe hard into my oxyplastoantifibrillator, and my inhaler and secure my mask,
Though there are no plastics now, and we finally realised that bioengineering, metal and bacteria was the way to go, but that had its own devastating effects,
But neither the less the world ended a long time ago,
Even humanity continues to walk,
Everything else actually died,
Anyway I shrug the thought free, and continue through the street ahead,
......
Though I know this city its dark grain,
It's fusion core shining,
In the fusion park at the heart of the city,
Trees that grows giving life but breed energy,
I walk along the stoney but moss covered pathways,
To once venture looking for scraps of the old world, not that I ever find any,
Today's world, it's built on the corpses of hundreds of old worlds,
.......
The skies and grain of the world seems eluminomous,
Similar dancing patterns of the forgotten Aurora of the Skies,
Deeply embedded dust of plastics that never died a million years ago,
Forever Graced with a polluted sky that shimmers,
Even the moon looking up, half eaten like an apple, stares,
The man in the moon lost its smile centuries ago, following the vast mining of the moon for fusion sources,
The leap of humanity they called it,
but now we have storms that decimate the entire earth,
but I do like the lightning.
.......
Though the bar on the corner,
Is still my refuge that lives on,
Not that there is much there,
The smell of toxins fill the air,
I do scabble in, smelling old rust,
Damp stone and cyberpunk metal,
The bartender does ask if there is anything I have, but there is nothing to give,
Though he does have a funny looking helmet, and stare with curiosity, but i was suppose to look for scraps,
.......
So I say I come back later, there is a slight nod, but we are always in preparation to hide,
I would have to be quick, before the afternoon scorch burns the city,
Even with fusion, it came to late,
I contine to tred into the early morning plastic filled air.
Into hell I continue to walk.

Speculative poem.
Free verse.
© balcar