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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Ill-fated crowds neath unchained clouds: the Silent City braved against a sudden flashing flood, unleashing lashing waves, which stripped its stony structures, blown with neutron bursts that laved. Its barren streets, although effete, resound of yesterday with chit-chat words no longer heard (though having much to say) since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away. Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes, which limn its frail forgotten tales, in weird unworldly runes with symbols strung like halos hung in lifeless, limp festoons. Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak, through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak, and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak. Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, throughout the doomed domain reflecting white, wee wisps of light in ebon beads of bane which cast a crooked smile across a faceless windowpane. Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate, while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait), whelm ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, though no one’s left to fete. Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds, oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds – in foggy neap the spirits creep beyond the mushroom clouds. No ghosts of ones with jagged tongues will sing a silent psalm nor haunt pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm, nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm. Continued in part 2
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