Ordinary, Silk, Destruction.

A waft of silver-blue gossamer
not quite miasma, yet undeniably …
something; sad, lost, a haunted air
trailing behind a figure of fleeing speech
as castles crash and ruins burn:
an ordinary day, the average casualties
of boardwalks thin as slippery grey,
narrow as words
barely distinct from fog ā€”
and clamouring boulders rising
from pits in charred soul-hollows
clawing, grasping, trying to shred
gossamer and skin and day
yet you pass and the day passes and
… and. And not. And all the worlds
and all the words
and all that is ordinary destruction
wrapped in silk.