Beneath neon’s glare, a terrace blooms—
Not roots nor leaves, but plastic fruits conspire,
Their syrup drips in saccharine perfumes,
A trap for flies drunk on electric fire.

Concrete veins pulse with synthetic juice,
Glass thrones host lips that sip and never taste;
Each gulp a hymn to progress, yet obtuse—
Teeth rot as sweetness melts to chemical waste.

The moon, a smudged receipt tossed in the smog,
Watches youth barter breath for branded air.
Bottled dusk glows, but truth stays incog—
Nature, now a clerk, sells despair as "fair."

What harvest thrives where artifice is creed?
A scaffold’s grin, where living things recede.