Dystopic

The broken silence of an undead radio
Screams out across the barren wastes unbearably
While bathed within a sickly iridescent glow
Those who should listen seem to only ever see.
The senses go unutilized by anyone
That could repudiate or change the desperate place;
Even the sorrows that were once so well-begun
Are hopeless now. There is no end to this stopped race.
Nothing continues; nothing finishes, or fades
It simply is, but is not known to be itself.
Life's lemons are still rinded for no lemonades
Can be made here: they rot untouched up on the shelf.
All is made bleak, yet not completely made to scale
Even the failures sit unfinished in their fail.