In a rain-soaked city, last winter, "young creatives" braced with paper cups of exotic coffees,
talked squarely into thinly layed retangular plastic talking back.

The gods' silent eyes dance with sarcastic humor, having plied our souls for the imminence
of death. Thus we curse the clouds that don't leave a tear behind, and water that only sings
through parched throats.

A shadow slouches across the path,
                                               leaving in its wake
                                                                 an empty cradle of dust.