Garbage by the wayside…

What is wrong with this town
this city, this nation?
Who are the ones
that fling/drop/scatter it there?
Are they self-aware?
Do they have worth?

Ugly artifacts stare up at me
from the gutter.

I read ripped labels,
avoiding shattered glass.
Bags blow past.

Spring doesn’t care,
flowering in and through the trash.

Dead animal carcass, pierced
By brilliant green weeds . . .

The Lord is He is to whom we are accountable
and He reigns in sovereign omnipotence.

 PROMPT #15:

write a poem in which you closely describe an object or place, and then end with a more abstract line
that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does.