Despite the forecast of this winter’s season

The sidewalk drowns in a warm sea of clouds and haze

As if the fog inside dusk’s head

Caused her to lose track of time

The floors of each ghost-silent house

Coated by another wispy layer of dew

For a moment I dream for the distant warbled stars

To be the soft fuzzy glow of streetlights

The shadows quiet; the path opaque

The afterglow disorients me

And I can barely distinguish between figures;

Either blackened bodies or spare trees 

Piercing my lungs with smokey sickles

Swoos in eight hundred shots of brume

Like countless dull needles sharpened 

By an exhausted obsidian whetstone 

Enter the echoing crowd of thunder

Exit the flaming clouds

The sandy moon evolves to glass while I

Seek refuge under the feigned star

Almost losing to the scent of ash

in the lunar dispersing “mist”