The Waste

It was never meant to be like this.
At what point do we abandon order,
And give in to destruction?
Here, in this desert of waste,
The materials long outlast
The spirit that created them.
Our excesses and our instincts
Became our undoing.
Wind pushes dust over dust,
Settling over the prosects of our former hopes.
All that remains is the face our beginning,
Rusted over by our inevitable end.