A cold mist has descended,
twixt the stockings and the leg,
in a rusted city of restless sleep
as the flora grows grey and the fauna brown.
A quiet rumble has tumbled
into the streets.
In rainbow puddles it dwells,
ominously hinting at a final dream.
In the evergreens weeps
the charred-up beasts
whom no machinery can quell,
in the dimming of hell.