They said he has since left the earthly world
past the gates of hell since the last hours of
the month of the hungry, the wandering,
the rootless, the restless, the haunted.
He has gone with the multi-coloured men
on trucks, their voices in loudhailers,
echoing through the block after block
of grey, faceless flats, resounding
in the licensed pitches of grass
trampled by zealous bare feet.
But he lingers:
He is the pervasive blanket of a fog,
so voiceless, so relentless.
He is an oppressive presence, thick
at 400 PSI, surging into the empty void
that is our void decks and our void hearts.
He is the grey that encroaches
and then engulfs, without warning
nor without a modicum of apology.
He is the heaviness that permeates
the light barren atmosphere of our souls.
I see pedestrians in the bedraggled
streets amidst the sepia headlights
of melancholic cries that drown
in a ghost of distant rain,
amidst the last wafts of incinerated joss
that curls into an unending dream
to the last of the white clouds in the sky,
unseen, unheard, unloved.