Tales of the apocalypse told now,
Rather than later, the end is ever
Nearer than we think, like corpses
Piled up, the death scents cloying
Like those morbid tales of spoiled
First world fascination.
When the blossoms have all fallen,
Rotting on the roadside, putrid
From lurid pink to dirty yellow,
Brown conglomeration of lost life,
Like our dreams mesmerising less;
Desperate for help.