Ashland: Poetry

It's over,
pack the roses,
put the caviar
on ice to chill

There's no party
here in Ashland
no expensive,
decadent thrill

The halls are closed,
the streets abandoned,
the church bell
rings no more

There's only
mournful wailing
from the cemetery
in the storm's downpour

It's over,
truly over
The plague has
spread its last

The fumes of
contentment
rise into the air,
raining down
like ash

It's over here
in Utopia,
Ashland is its
new name

The funeral pyres
just smolder now
in the dark,
torrential rain.

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