People of the Smoke

We are the people of the smoke

Hidden in darkening grey, ghosts on a lost horizon

Huddled under red skies

Nostrils filled with death

Throats gasping for the breath of Hell

Choked to silence

Bent

Broken

Molten into invisibility

Cursing this unspeakable thirst

As we hear the beat of great leathery wings

And pray that somehow they will pass us by