Dogs

There are innumerable bodies lining the sidewalks;
and we still talk about sitcoms, sports, and dramas.

Some people will never learn to think
outside of the box.

How long will the forgotten die as our memories go on?
Will we remember them at all?
The prospect is somber,
regardless.

Under the rubble,
buried too deep
to be met by our dishonest sympathies,
lies a truth
too dark to uncover,
too poverty-stricken.

A tricycle sits on it's side in a deserted street
waiting for a sweetheart that lost her life before her innocence.

This isn't how life is supposed to be;
is it?

We've become too blinded by our greenbacks
to see that they've sewn seeds in killing fields,
and compounded the causes of relief efforts.

A chorus of crushed voices resonates from the ruins,
Crying out.

Sometimes I think I feel the pursed lips of my wallet
bleeding down my hamstring,
beaten centsless by a constant diet of tender dollars
as others starve.

Then there were the dogs,
pancaked under the concrete stories.
At least grieve for the dogs.

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