The streets are cold this time of year.
Cynicism and tinsel string lies lick the lips
of sinners and saints alike.

Passing on the busy walk with dead eyed glances,
like phantoms caught in a time not their own,
people walk through one another as they head for home.

No time for Recognition.
No need to understand.

The walking, talking dead
bleed memories of a yesterday that never was
in hopes of a tomorrow they are unwilling to pay for.

The whining, dining dead
sell feel good causes with fleshless fingers,
hoping others accept the blame
for the stench of their condition.

The streets are cold this time of year,
for both the living and the dead.
Souls, unsatisfied with who they are
seek solace in self deception.

The streets are cold this time of year,
but no more cold than normal.