Doomstorm

A faint ethereal almost false dawn
Like some gigantic iPod, dimming down
Not quite before the florescence has gone,
Surrounds this suddenly reclusive town.
The sky is brighter than you might expect
Not from the sun or moon, for neither shines,
But from the streetlights, which the drifts reflect
Off of the fire hydrants and stop signs.
The city seems at peace, until you wait
And watch the borealis of the snow
Which, whipped into a hyperfrantic state
Wanders around, not knowing where to go.
It seems a desert, filmed in black and white;
A strange and almost secretive delight.