In the city where the silver fog descends, A “cunning, baffling” ghost begins its reign. Where every steep and narrow street extends, There lies the heavy, sweet, and ancient chain. A populace in shadow, bent and bowed, Beneath a sky of gray and digital gold, While through the Tenderloin, a silent crowd Surrenders to a story centuries old.

They call him Morpheus, master of the sleep, Who offers poppies in a plastic sleeve. The promises he makes are dark and deep: A temporary logic to deceive. He whispers that the concrete is a bed, That hunger is a dream that will not stay, While placing crowns of lead upon the head To keep the stinging light of life at bay.

The city plays its part in this design, A “codependency” of heart and hand. We draw a soft and agonizing line Between the rescue and the reprimand. “We cannot let them die,” the leaders cry, While pouring mercy in a sieve of grief, Watching the light depart the human eye, Finding in temporary breath, a brief relief.

But Morpheus is a jealous, hungry god, He takes the silver and he takes the soul. Upon the very ground that saints once trod, The broken pieces cannot make a whole. The “baffling” part is how the brilliance fades, How silicon and steel cannot repair The wreckage in the neon-lit arcades, Or lift the heavy poison from the air.

Oh, San Francisco, wake from out this trance, Break the embrace that numbs the spirit’s fire. Give life a second, stark, and sober glance, Beyond the reach of every dark desire. For though the dream is soft, the bed is stone, And none should have to face the god alone.