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And plummeting


Into this strangely familiar place.

Nothing is as it should be.

Here should be a sea of faces.

And there, a typical Bourbon Street scene.

Nothing is as it should be.

A savage wind rages around,

Ripping and tearing at everything.

Nothing can stand against it.


Devoid and


City streets painted in shadowy shades of grey

Indistinguishable from the swirling, ominous sky.

Dusk melts into night which fades to day.

Limbs strain to whisper to their roots; a sign

That she’s there and it’s time.

Strangely familiar is this ghost town.

Silence reigns in place of city sounds.

Empty houses with closed eyes

Meet their fate and founder,

Inundated by the surging tide.

Look past the once crowded streets

To higher ground

And find that this isn’t quite a ghost town.

A call for evacuation came too late.

Few fled; circumstances forced most to stay.

The elderly and the impoverished, social outcasts,

Hunkered down, packed into a last resort public place,

Praying the storm’s fury will quickly pass.

A savage wind howls and screeches,

Pushing the sea further inland,

Turning streets into newborn rivers.


Empty and


City streets filled with the dead;

Corpses face down in river-streets.

Survivors desperately wishing they’d fled,

Not wanting to hear the frantic screams

Of the un-resigned, living-dead’s pathetic pleas.

What was once part of the sea, the hand

Of Triton has reached out and reclaimed.

Succumbing to the waters, a modern Atlantis

Crumbles and sinks to its awaiting place

Beside the golden palace, beneath the watery day.

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