Tis the season
Of yellow drifts
Of dreamy smoke.
Wisps of hazy, yellow tendrils
that wrap – like fingers –
around your throat choking,
as they chortle.
They scratch at your eyes and
Milk your sinuses.

It hangs like a pall –
Like a bride veiled before an altar –
Over our City,
Where three bent towers
Stand like joss sticks
Burn slowly in reverence
To our slow but surely death.
And within, gamblers try their hand
In attempts to defeat Sorrow,
And avert death.

But Death, like the House,
Will not be cheated;
His bony fingers
Grasped around his Scythe,
Like the Haze around
Our skyscrapers and throats.
He waggles a finger and clucks,
Like the condescending teacher
Who’s caught you in The Act.

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