No logical sun could generate sense in this

Furrowing gray lands on open-ended flat.
Houses weren't built to handle this - the stress of lives poured on like cinder blocks.
And the golden motion of flowers carries no scent, or is that just my pedestrian future?
'Open eyes have genius and leak'

Futility and too much seduction will drive you away.
The heavy body of contingency says so anyway.
This city needs a desperate flight upwards, but it only sinks and slowly spreads,
a mud-monster melting, here.

Less can we walk than drive.
Anyway we've forgotten how and so are left in our individual
miserable orbs of gas-guzzling existence.
This holds inside as out.