Chiseled dusk shadows stretch

across the stench of uncertainty, street

lights piercing through a dark blue

mist of innuendos laden with earthy

dampness.

Deserted church decaying on a

dead-end road, posted signs declaring 

gross condemnation—passersby 

surmising a reference to the building,

virtue long abandoned by both.

Vaping guy dancing on the street

corner—waving a crudely painted

poster disavowing climate change, the

self-appointed community hero awaiting

trial for spousal violence.

White horse whispers again, several

years since our last conversation—an 

implied discourse for no one's ears. 

Visions of unintended fates. Colorless

dawns, my death will be jasmine—but

death is brief, like a sigh.