Where the mushrooms blur in halves, 

wither in the mist of anti-bacterial chemicals, 

rotten faces are poisoned chocolates, 

melting on decomposing grasses.

 

Why do they have to breath? 

The earth beneath their caps burns in venom, 

sterilized from the dose of methane gasses, 

and the air around them is purely smog.

 

Why do they have to live? 

We killed the soil of their homes, 

poisoned the creeks under their feet, 

everything around them is dried wind, 

and we forget that there is still

another day after tomorrow.

 

If that tomorrow will come, 

we will be waking up on the bed 

of food shortages, 

everything around will be painted with blood, 

peace will be as elusive as a slippery eel, 

men will be compelled to murder for existence, 

a world in chaotic nightmare.