"uneulogized" poems
He lays there,
Dead and dry,
Mouth open,
Hard as a stone.
Sun scorching,
As his body blight,
His soul wears black,
Cold shouldered by passersby.
Morning to night,
He waits to find peace,
But crows peck,
Pitch into a dumpster.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC