Untitled

May 18, 2008
By Alia Wilhelm, Paris, ZZ

Bent double, and shaking
like a horse waiting to be whipped,
I swallow my unalienable tears, and moan.
We moon away the days
and watch our morbid reflections in the puddles
of forgotten morasses.
Morsels of food from insipid but bounteous passerbys
sit not long on our tattered palls.
They revel in our misfortune
and we at their poverty of heart.

Like rats, we feed off their leftovers,
and this family of skeletons
and are too busy with their hourly dinners
to notice.
We creep and crawl into the dusk
as they offer the dog a five star meal.
A fine fee for the doctor
that examined her hold
and walked straight past us,
blind to our pale, hanging faces,
deaf to our beseeching voices,
hoarse from all the begging.
In the distance,
The moon breaks
And all light is gone.


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