In the back streets of Howkata , a man filled with poisons and strung tightly with leather,
broke into a sprint as his child fell, fell far from the tallest tower.
He caught the broken laser lights and holograms of the mafias finest and the market was bustling below him, he fell faster creating no sound.

homage to fallen cloud

A voice clung to the airwaves and ran over the children's ears like boiling honey, 
the blisters where soothed by the mothers calling to them, screaming their names. 
All warriors dropped down, carving a solid blackness in the once static sky. 
The noise was unbearable and the prostitutes and the dealers and the rest of the scum scattered to the port. 
No one was left in the city street, the clubs and the bars where empty, only the laser lights and smell of black ice rum flowed into the drains. 
The warriors marched, they left no one else alive. They hummed and rattled, drawing the children   in to their open arms.
They took them back, and they where safe. 
The mothers screamed, and all the scum returned. 
And the holograms told the people to continue.

Tetchoki