Stillborn

by Luna Nova

Longing for a gleaming city.
For spires of glass and steel, outgrowths risen above the clouds. For a place that never sleeps, for the teeming masses to bustle.

For crafts all manner, flowing in and out, speeding by in a blink, or lazily drawing in to a stop.
I must make do with low hills, these grids of stout boxes barely defacing a rolling silhouette; concrete stalagmites that would replace the skyline left only in my head.

I know there's something wrong

Your concrete heart isn't beating
I am so helpless here
And nothing that I do
Is ever going to bring you back

Dwelling in this frozen moment carried forward half a century.
How did we become content in this stasis?

I expect at minimum such upheaval from technology that none of this matters object level.