Soon the sun shall rise
in this hollow sky
and finish this long
blank-eyed night
crushing a cricketish
ocean of shed leaves
and cicada shells
a distant watchman
swept by the chilling frost
whispers
"half of creation
is destruction"
shivers briskly
breathing and eating
cotton puffs
in the searing chill
crisps through unlit hulks
rusting on their manufactured feet
A freezing gust rushes
through the graffittied concrete
and straight rows of trees
the conflageration
of crinkling cellophane
is a drizzle
tempestuous in the hush
bright commuter lights
swing past, wash
a spooky black
old slapped-together log shack's
anachronistically
glittering glass;
the same sentry checks doors as
a bonging clang
rings seven
and the drizzle turns to snow
in the feeble half-light.
The clouds are now
silhouetted in the
grey-blue
and distant streetlights
die like lightning bugs
bedding down.
"Shed tears for old joy,"
whispers the grim wan sun
peering through its dismal veils
"I am the dawn
of a new day."
