We arrived at misted curtains.
They reigned waiting,
drifting around conifers, steeping
what little color they held into the air.
A scavenging dog howls from the receding coast.
It is the diction of these desolate shores,
an inflection of its inconceivable utterance:
That which sinks in murky water,
cast off from conventional,
the old now valued gold;
a pure place assumed permanent
if continued will be left a fictional fume.
Lost by a warped, blinded escort,
surrounded by cruise ships as tourist flock,
all culture is now preformed.
Blending, rendering itself lifeless
all greenery is obscured by flashes, windows, and screens.
Their throats are constricted by the stale air.
Step off the bus, the train, the boat.
An iceberg collapses and sends toy ships spinning.
The arctic bath has been displaced.
Glory resounds, expands, and lingers
as the hidden falls relieve my weeping urge.
Winded is reflection brought to distant lands,
for space impregnates the dawn of man.
As beheld by the Wanderer