Miasma

Bad air hangs over Olympia.

Be it from the lake,
the waterfront,
the alleys,
uptown,
or on the hill
where law claims capitol.

There lives a wraith somewhere.

It manifests to infect newbloods
with its promise of risk, how it
renders silent the cacophonous mist
that is each participant in the
mysticism and illusion of this
such wonderous existence.

The spirit of the city.

How free it flies.
How it wears no guise.
How it clouds and drowns
the weak exposed to it.
How it galvanizes and uplifts
the...