Angry clouds, grey chalk and dried blood,
churn mercilessly against the setting sun,
inciting gentle souls toward a felonious night.
Even the street lights are afraid,
shuddering and blinking with each shrieking gust of wind
and every snarling howl of gangs on the prowl.
Monks and priests shred their robes and cassocks,
flinging debris toward the sky that deceived them
without reason or recourse.
Their hours of good counsel, the years of good work,
melt into pools of crack cocaine and mortgages, luxury cars and
outdoor kitchens, psychotic children, and emptiness.
Dawn comes as the shadows fade into commute rush traffic,
muting the brilliance and sharpness of the night lights.
It ends, just another night on the town.