The Spirit

The Spirit churns Like the grinding of cogs The breath of the Spirit Is the blackest of fogs It glides through the sky It makes not sound But for the chortle of rich men No other voice can be found Spiraling it goes down It blankets those eyes It fills their red throats Silences their cries The Spirit moves on Stops for no pause Does not look behind Sees not what it's caused Our faces covered in soot, we cannot see Our lungs filled with tar, we cannot breath Yet, we march with the Spirit So that the Past may leave