The boulevard is hollow with sounds
of a shadow falling down,
caresses late night 2 in-the-morning
as he's roaming with no purpose
but to be found
homeless yet under dark canopies' night
no wakeful eyes
with their human curiosity can witness
the part-time employment
of a piece of meat...

He has lost count of years,
the self-deluded reasons behind why
still alive
his feet are numb
his senses save for scent & tastelessness
have intertwined
as destitute as cruel as thirst
/ un-cared for
used for last, far from first...

oh where to go, and how to get there
what to do when kind arrives?
with dust of too many past lives
he's fabricated a coat of armor
dementia for his steed he rides
with shield of quick words remiss of wit
dagger of harsh emotions
self inflictions like a whip
the truth is
there's no such thing as happy endings
for a thing like him
piece of meat at markets
that cater to the web
to the beasts...

A piece of meat has no story
when it is consumed
to fill the hunger of insatiable eschewing
like teeth of wolves sharply chewing
with the voracity of fierce
unfed hunters killers thieves
for them it is easiest to capture
the **** who is blind
than discover that their food
in it’s short lived time
had a life,
complicated lack of voice
complete with name and face and choice
suddenly the price has its admission
into existence
how to consume the friend now known?
or infect another now
reflecting the flesh of brother...

There is always a choice
to be
what it is you make
yourself
                     see...
because you see:

*"no eyes doth have a piece of meat"