The boxes were small on
plinths,
Not many but never
distinct;
Quest to touch sky via
concrete,
Erected in disarray, not in discrete.
What’s small could’ve been
built,
And layered never but
adjacent;
Had any land lost been
nurtured,
Concrete too amended with
nature.
Boxes were extortionate,
less sighted,
In square feet or meter at most,
heightened;
No trees beside, no plants or
crops,
Plinths too ain’t touched
skies in droughts.
Where all thoughts
originated & ended,
Confined, followed what’s
trending;
Higher lower lowest, big or
small,
But uncertain when uncertainty fall.