Les Rues

In the sky we see the plumes

of smoke to spell one’s certain doom.

 

Away, away, unto the grave,

you await the day that speeds you ‘way

and in the midst of darkened days

walk dreary ways living dreadful plays.

Waiting, waiting, send the squall a ways,

unmoor your boat from decrepit quays.

Ferry yourself far from the fray

to seas anew where new life lays

to seek what could be, what might be, what may,

to find the fearful and fanciful fae,

to ask for help, a request be made,

to gleam the freedom of soul shattered and sprayed.

Swiftly sent ‘cross seven seas,

soared seven aires, sweeping cities

and in said cities, storms had stirred.

The squalls they squandered had waxed their worst

‘till at last they thundered their throes,

tearing through streets: Les rues de souffrance.