Poetry-Thing Thursday: Best Left for Dead?

Our greatest achievements,
may be the final nail,
in a series that’s secured,
our coffin’s lid and veil.

Cars and planes,
trucks and trains,
all spitting smoke and bile,
in atmospheric style.

Meanwhile great earth-movers,
cut tracks and grooves,
into our fragile soil.

And deep in the cities,
our stars are gone,
even past them it pities,
to look where no man can reach:
the sky’s beauty is taken,
by our polluted bleach.

If only we’d been smarter,
and kept our minds open,
then our greatest achievement,
would have spared us the pavement.

Instead,
perhaps we’re best left for dead.