Up Through

Through the gray mist of the city black petals push up toward the sky... like a schooner sniffing for lost booty behemoths breeching for the moonlight. Some make it to the sweetened shore the air sprinkled with chipped gems others cling to the driftwood of hope just to be nudged, then bitten in half. This lantern makes no promises of happiness the thinning pride crouches in desperate prayer the fates may favor the lucky or the blessed but damn the faithless to the sated lair.