Moon at Half Past Noon

Where petrified saplings, skyward thrust,
Reflect a sun, of shimmering rust.
No verdant breath, no needle’s soft descent,
But glass-shard leaves, on steel’s firm ligament.
The hollow echo, of a digital breeze,
Through canyons deep, where phantom sunlight flees.
Each polished bark, a screen’s reflected gleam,
A silent chorus, in a waking dream.
The roosting fireflies, in ordered rows,
Illuminate the paths, where no sap flows.
A million eyes, on pixelated skies,
Where phantom birds, in coded patterns rise.
The rootless giants, in their stony pride,
Hold captive whispers, where true feelings hide.
A tangled web, of wires, thin and bright,
Where solitude blooms, in artificial light.