it makes me thirsty.

buzzarding merchants
scouring the pavement for one
who yearns for the waters of life.
drained from the cityscape
drying in the slums
uncorked soul-burn bile
floods into the avenue
steaming under the streetlight suns
and the buzzards smell sweet rotting blood.

i am thirsty, yes.
but the price of relief is quite a bit more than money.

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