Your fountain runs dry, without ivy or mold
Frail frame, curled round the cracked cement, you eyes open only
to count the wrinkles from time, to scratch them out
on fraying pieces of paper, to chronicle the
decline, to preserve the date of every shift in the crumble,
every piece of rubble turned to dust.
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 their residents eating instant
dinners, powdered milk and pills.
Know now, among missed meals 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.
Points: 890
Reviews: 24
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