the little ones
hiding in the
tiny shelters
of the palpating heart

they sit
in corners
of a
circular room

eating at
swarms of
undying flowers
that litters the bloodstream

a weeping
of souls
as they meet
at the overpass

drunk in the
midnight rain
of salt
and of grey moons

they pray
to an unknown
heaven
that lies intoxicated

painted a black
sculpture of misery
and torture
like da vinci’s death wish

all sit in a
pothole
filled with rain
of the wailing wind

and so
as they say
they cry

A lost plea for help.
Flatline.