© Steve Gray 2026
We rot together in this structure, a stinking frame of pine and rust,
a gathering of blind prophets spitting teeth into the dust.
The few who hold the plans and tools, are those who see the blackening sky,
Together they are huddled in the dry bar and watch the liquid die.
A wretched, cold, abortive storm is belly-up out east;
The squall we left behind was small, it barely fed the beast.
And so we crouch. And so we crave a deep, narcotic state,
to sleep right through the shattering when iron cracks under the weight.
But who can judge the coming dark or check the thunder’s crack?
We do not rule the howling void; we are merely part of its broken pieces.
