Mote Poem by Norman F. Santos

Precipitating into the dust
Wind tussling in a thrust
Riveted amidst a city
With no eyes for sympathy
Tossed in an endless brunt
All too tired for this bunt
Serendipity is uninvited
To the heart of the blighted

Caught in the streak of tangerine
An afternoon for the pristine
Where do I resign?
In the absence of all benign?
When cinders depart the fire
When dust seizes to fly
What utopia do they find?
The good riddance for the blind?