Real

I was reading Charles Dickens' biography last night and it just inspired me to write this. It would be nice to get a little feedback.

Real

Beauty, capture the Earth's smile,

absent, 

agonisingly loud music shields what is real,

sun beats down, bearing it's rays,

history books dusty,

alone, no thumbed pages.

A lone horse,

once a vehicle,

now a spectacle.

Damp residue, cramped families,

a bed of hay,

rumbling stomachs.

An easy life now,

remote controls, macbooks, i-phones,

not good enough?