Whisps of morning fog coat the chill in the air,
settle on grey streets like something terminal,
a silence not oft found outside hospice care;
the unsaid need for an end and the ephemeral.
Submerged in mist, there grew a rumbling sound,
a thunderous rhythm now barreling down,
unhindered by the world in this tragic frame;
through all, the ravenous silver beast still came.