Wasted
by Mischa Laurent

Dark, vapid lips chanting memories of reality
While underneath the piles, seekers search for meals.
Cardboard houses, piled high, melting in the rain
Oil slicks expanding catch unwary heels.

Iron spikes corrode and drip, does metal truly bleed?
Pigeon crap completes the portrait, filling in the eyes.
Wasted floral bedspread, torn and spilling cotton.
On sodden paper rests the head, a fibre crown of lies.

A rising scream, a fading mind, a heart too torn to spout.
Torrents of entrails, a splash of crimson, viscous fluids and tears.
Cracked white bones, sinews exposed, elevated from skin.
Missing since Friday, found on Monday. But no-one really cares.