See, some cities rest in dust
quite dead bodies slowly merging
in tons of polluted sand
and faded spirits barely floating
in the gray air, like fly ash -

Time is filled with contaminants:
downside up, the old boy’s life
not liver-colored since love has gone
there’s resignation, there’s repetition
not so bad, not so bad
on the dark couch, one more stain
not so bad, could be worse
thoughts blur into soporific mantras
become prayers to mediocrity at dusk
when those cities rest in… -

With bruises almost inexistent
when darkness falls and lights are dim
in a container that could be labeled
and shipped to immobility
(not so bad), where he can drown
in isolation, slow deconstruction
gratitude kept, plus some submission
bruises barely visible to the conscience
behind soiled curtains,
behind soiled windows
behind the heavy veils of rain -

Some souls rest in the dust
of bodies with no intent:
limbs inhibited, skin that barely ages
doing nothing, heart just pumping in a cage
while the graveyard-city eats their dust.