E.S.B. 9/12

Turning at the curve of the path I see the Empire State Building against the periwinkle sky, outlined in the tears of mist, obnubilate in gray mourning.    The spire, extending to where harmony lives, a dreamland, Zion, piercing the gradient sky.  The syringe valiantly standing, diagnostically spanning the lineation, healing the city of past malevolence.  Bandaging the wounds of tomorrow.