Glass sentinels stand atop the unflinching plain,
Translucent obelisks stark and cold,
Light of the artificial sun catches in the brown and green,
The stagnant air hangs about,
Cloying and thick.
A foul stench pervades this wasteland,
Crawling about through the weather-worn glass,
Whispering silent underfoot,
Where the rustling of trash,
Can be heard upon the Earth.
Another glass edifice falls into place,
With a delicate sound it joins its brethren,
Dotting the landscape like stones in a graveyard,
Standing stark and cold,
As the light is turned out.
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