Fallout

 

Fallout

 

It wafted o’er the mountains

In the wakeful dead of night.

In bitter tinted curtains

It rusted morning’s light.

The sweetness in the air

Was lost as paper snow,

Meandered from the lair

Of Hades up below.

The Vesuvian sky

-Whilst the sun crept higher-

Brought the omen nigh

Of a California Fire.

 

-M.M.

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