It whispers the fog as it blows and billows,

Gothic cathedrals, faux silver chandeliers

Latent cries and impatient sighs of reckoned Byronic heroes,

Caskets of oranges, groves of wine they deny in belvederes.

The fog murmurs:

Ichor drip drips from pewter faucets now flows;

Hedonist divans people lounge and disappear,

Visceral, venereal hypodermic inflows,

Whiffs of feminine shawl and scarfs thrown cavalier.

The fog mumbles:

Lilly blossoms, cherry blooms congregate pillows,

Teak shelves reek of time lined with hollow spheres;

Antique somethings with blood diamonds glows,

Epicure; we die of three vices, said seers.

The fog speaks:

The women don’t speak of Michelangelo, and the men don’t speak of war.

The fog soliloquizes for all.