Sat in the Pub Zoo, I can nestle
And lie, in the hustle and bustle
Of this merciless crowd of brick.


My thoughts are my own for me
To lay down on a bed of broken
Bones, and weary, weeping eyes.


I look up to see a skeleton of black
And of piercings. I will never know
What it thinks, for which I am grateful.


For sometimes, I don’t wish to seek
Another ruin. My neurological debris
Is enough, it tortures me until tomorrow.


I do not hope, or wish, or think
Or willingly believe. I just sit and
Exist and critique the sobbing leaves.