The smoke is always floating precariously in the air,
Threatening to fall face down on the earth, bringing down a few storeys with it.
The glass doors are more wary of the ugly soot.
They are cleaned twice everyday,
By men, cloth in hand, moving their arms in a robotic up-down-up.
But they are not robots, yet.
The glass doors are a big fraternity, and one leads to another.
They sell attractive work-life-soul packages at discounted rates.
The smoke looms large above each, slowly moving from one place to another.
Glass mannequins wonder how fast they can escape with their long, sword-like heels.
Anxiously adjusting sparkling big stones around their necks, whispering to each other, “Will the smoke dull this shine?”
Plastic forests with their lush enthusiasm fail to assure of environmental regeneration.
They bow their plastic heads in shame, their great grandmothers could draw up water from the earth.
Men run around excitedly, they’re not afraid of anything.
Maybe they need a gun, or a tight lasso, and they’ll take down that arrogant black cloud in no time.
Maybe they need a pair of robot hands- easy.
The great cloud smirks as thinner layers curl up from long pipelines every day.
Via Daily Post: Forest