CXIV: The Seven Days of August: ii

Night

The monsoon fog clings tightly on this air,

so nighttime vapors drip with something more.

That scent that all the nighttime walkers share,

now laced with liquid’s sweetly-scented spore.

Its haze befuddles all the light above,

bedraggles all the stars that light the sky,

besmirches palest moonlight, in lieu of

a rose-besotted crimson dark-lit dye.

They say that so’s the last of skies to see

before the war of wars will end the world.

But I think I have seen it ritually

at least once as each August is unfurled.

Maybe it is in August that it ends.

But on these fog-soaked skies it all depends.