Something’s wrong here.

The waves gleam too flawless, too still.
Not water—plastic, sculpted from the waste that drowns what once lived.

The sea no longer breathes.
Instead it sings —a siren’s hymn spun from poison.
Its beauty is a trap, a radiant mask for rot,
a rhymical lullaby sung to pull us under

Above, the sky sags with smog,
the sun a sickly yellow wound.
It doesn’t shine—it warns.

This isn’t a metaphor.
This is the reckoning.

Imminent death has never looked so beautiful.

—JON.E.B.