Untitled I

Something I scrounged up from the line 'months turn to years, turn to dust.'

Months turn to bitter years, turn to dust,
Ash blows, free in the momentary breeze, up-up-and-away it goes,
Dour grey and embers glowing envenomed-green,
Lune turns her face in shame away, but verdant she is still,
Emerald gleam kiss the sands, the dust, the ruddy steel,
But melancholic, age-old cities brood o'er charred bone and sun-bleached skulls,
Dark and broken stand the streetlights, silent monuments to thee and thine,
Grief and sorrow naught shall know, nor joy and happiness entwined,
Months turn to bitter years, turn to dust,
The Sun rolls on, He dawns and sets again at dusk,
Lune blooms and withers, and blooms again,
But Earth, choked with ash and venom, sires neither tree nor flower,
And covered in sand her children lie, dead.

Author's Note

I am fairly certain there are no grammatical mistakes, nor any structural ones.
It's a bit over-the-top melodramatic and skin-tight-black-velvet-turtleneck-wearing material, but I think it's also a bit decent.