hiding in febrile shade.
A place of contempt.
Where every doorway contains permanent shadows.
Paper memorials and decaying flowers
line streets honoring the innocent
and the incessant.
Time flows freely for some,
like the needle they stick in their arm.
For others, time stands still.
As still as the torrential,
surrounding them at:
Decadence plays the part of
the weak-willed, abused.
Open, perforated arms beckon empathy.
Shame and self-degradation run in
Blood runs through the gutters
staining the already tainted
debris with apathy.
Yet they still kneel.
Pray to a non-existent god,
in the center of a concrete jungle.
A place where your guardian angels
have abandoned you.