Back Pains in Relation to Spinal Cords

i loved this poem. it is beautiful!

the title really seems to make sense, too.
i read this poem as of about people who have wasted their lives away, who gave up. i fear of becoming one of them actually, so it was really meaningful to me.
i especially liked the last stanza.

great job!

My suggestions/questions are in orange:

Without ivy or mold, your fountain of joy runs dry. The fountain runs dry because it doesn't have ivy or mold?
Curled round the cracked cement, eyes (the eyes are curled around the cracked cement?) open only
to count the wrinkles from time (I like that), to scratch them out
on fraying pieces of paper (interesting phrase), to record chronicles of
decline (that's a little redundant...to record chronicles), to preserve the date of every shift in the crumble,
every piece of rubble turned to dust. That was a long sentence. Shorten it.
Concrete angels whine hunger to the heavens,
doves leave bloody feathers in their wake, and tears
fall, unnoticed, just as lives wink out in dusky apartments --
found only when the stench creeps beneath the
neighbor's floorboards and finds them eating instant
meals, powdered milk and pills. Who is "them"?

Know now, among missed meals (very close to the other "meals", isn't it?) and dehydration,
that you died a thousand year prior, and now
the last bits of you have disintegrated into ashes,
which serve only as a maggot's afterthoughts, and never
angel dust from God.