there are streets
not too far
from here
lined with ruins,
burnt down
and out.
a dull and raw
nevi revered in
disgust. a
forlorn stigmata,
in disbelief.
perhaps, it has
been mused,
beauty sleeps
and is scarified
there. a sluggardly
return to a
pungent humus.
and when the sun
escapes from
there at its end,
little whispers
float about and
all around
in the empty
and nearly
silent wind.

they can't be
saved and they
won't be,
if there was
just some way
to show it
to you as
it sleeps
gentle and brutal
in its malevolent,
violent silence.
it wilts and
it thrives and
i can't make a bit
of sense out
of any of it.
it is all there
in all its
blankness.
nameless, just
beyond the word,
beyond the
abject fascination
within the
salted tears,
without a
flowering reason.