Red Threads

The injured and the broken howl
all night- their wounds, mouths
of wolves. Gathered in packs.
A cry against the silent evening.

In the corner of an alley, a roll
of clothes. As if the body dissolved
away beneath them. Red threads
turning blue and grey. Something
small crawling away.

Everywhere signs. In the city
of the dead. Of arms and hands
and thorns. Of faces, beautiful
and damaged. Of sound, the rhythm
of a black, forgotten hour.

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