Through The Haze

Dystopia twisted, wraps around us like flies,
concrete statues marching always onward
as a silent thrusting violence, clouding disguise,
darkened smog shrouds the sunset forward.

Caught amidst grey smoke and cancerous fumes
a small silhouette there, innocence dropped
from his hands. Hatred curls in spires and plumes,
it’s too late, cold fate cannot be stopped.

His eyes reflect cruel towers skyward reaching,
echoing as glass. His thoughts ebb and fall.
resigning legs beneath him are downward seeking,
his throat gives out a scratching lingering call.

I find I’m filled with regret for the dark silhouette,
the twisted knife in his back, his blood running black.
Solace is easy to get, don’t turn away yet;
there’s no coming back, he’s lost, cast into black.