To the Builder

All the concrete, the glass, the steel
You rage against,
Are daily constructs 
Of your busy, tizzy mind.
Rigid with an un-love
That forever removes you 
From The Source of all Things Alive. 
The cars don't just smoke their
Way into your lungs
The cigarette butts loosely claiming
Your very ground with stealth
And maybe a disease that 
Will soon rip you apart. 
Death is no respectable middle class
Person that'll hold back, pull back
Stop from being brutal. 
True that your sky will be
Shrouded one day with a tar black
Of unmet dreams. 
True that your flesh will sigh 
Will heave with a rudderless smile
Even if you lived like someone
Who never wanted to be
A terrifying simile -
If you can grow a forest of mirth 
Deep inside a body craving
For some real eyes, a real mouth
That could speak your heart sounds
Out like a witless child spirit,
Why then would you choose
To build, to bulldoze, to erect
All the glass, the steel, the concrete
You've slowly come to be?