Another Way Of Outrage

Let my body go to dust
and the iron in my blood lay down 
into rust on your sweeping modern vision.
The bright steel slowly 
pitting like the sockets of my eyes
and like all that dies. 
Let me rot
in the fungal alchemy, among the soil and leaves, 
what few are left 
among these thwarted plans 
of the forest. Stand,
I will not; I will rust and rot
while the concrete structures rise,
false canyons echoing the traffic
of souls and pain, the Earth made rigid 
and ready for crumbling ruin 
beneath the reaping waste I will become.