From the narrow park on whispering high,

And the hotel of mannequins across the waystation,

Find the key draped away from the dredging skull’s soul.

And from the ravines rolls the fog—gray as the autumn sky,

Strange may be the mortem host as the earth quakes, and I drift through my unholy creation.

I lose the memory in the thickened haze amidst the tremoring destruction at the morning bell toll.

Photo by Guste Ci on Unsplash