Again
a Poem for the Modern Existentialist
Autumn rains have come again.
Seasons change like unsure kin.
In the air, upon the sky
clouds roam free... agin.
Blankets, grey, roll 'cross the ridge—
uncanny wind arcs like a bridge
across the valley of metal-stone
afraid to touch the djinn.
The city night chokes thick with sorrow
we go the lost toward better morrow—
for greener pastures, sunlit sky
clouds roaming free... again.
