After The Trees Are Gone Poem by James McLain

After the trees are gone.
After the green fades off into brown.
When there is no more air left to breath.
Forget all the colours you've dreaming seen.
From nineteen hundred on back
no poet could have about this forseen.
It defies our very survival on Earth's face.
No one to read how you lived life and loved.
And the roaches won't care how you died.
You need no prophet about this to know.
Air, air there is no more air left to breath.
Air the next form of currency.
Their is no reasonable purpose or logic to this
except without air they know you will die.
And about all of those whom only can take
while giving nothing back in rebirth or returned.
There are those among you, I know that you don't know them.
They still think of you like a child, not like that of as.
Stupid people without air were not meant to survive.
Come plant a tree, it's not to late to get mad!
Before you have no air left to breath.
Before your will is gone and there is no one left to sing.