Amidst gray garlic skies

Swells a deafening despair

It laments the death of yesterday

And in its ineffable grief

Appears as a drop, yes a drop

It is green and resembles

A soft wind blown thus among clouds

By the ordinance of chance

Across black boulevards

And here the legendary

Taste of ashes fills the air

Where a single breath disperses

Galactic calculations through green glaciated lips