breezes dust paths worn to ash,
risen to civilization,
fallen to rubble in less time.

cloves of ivy gather to infect
like gossip, and syphilis cures
the vineyard of pests.
this is a temple of god,

i need not remind the thorny
weeds, reaching up to pull the flesh
like cadavers scavenging
blossoms, wreaking havoc in orchards
sewn by the hands of the righteous.

i have been pricked by a brier,
and cast shadows
in the valley of death.

i beseech the wanderers,
join me.

there is fruit of knowledge
free from worms of naivety.
ripe with the sheen of accomplishment,
and compassion devoid
of faith; the moral compass

that points the finger
for the painter of death.

fences sprawl over dirt and weeds,
partitioning vacant buildings
from bustling streets and hustling
city dwellers. the latter
strains the links, hopping over lines
to keep themselves in the shadows
of an urban culture whittled
to death by white flight.

take it easy,
make it easy on yourself in the suburbs.
the tissue lining this urban skeleton
that swells during business hours.
your arteries are reduced to a single
commuter train, tracking itself
in a straight line to the center.

can it survive when it’s bled
for the cure? i’m not so sure
that the exchange of fluids will continue.

you need something pumping out
from the middle. a pulse, at least.
there’s something untangling
the soddered metal links
that are keeping this vacancy
from seeping to our toes.

spreading like a puddle,
now everything is closing.
everything is boarded
or the glass is broken
between the gaps of infrastructure.

and now it’s been decided
to address an issue:

“people, people;
we have a crisis on our hands.”

because the blame
always seems to apply
collectively.