As skies become hazy,
the people become lazy,
waiting, watching for the world to end.
The thick, ash-filled air
makes grey their clothes and hair,
lying, restless until all does
stop.
Among the haze,
the colors still blaze
but nothing like the flowers
and sunsets that once were.
So, they get up
only to drink and sup
on the diminishing supply,
nothing more like ambrosia.
But still there is hope,
a blue on the slope,
the horizon of the rising sun,
just for you and for me.
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