They gather around like wolves after prey,
hunched backs, curled fingers,
eternal snarls, starved growls.
Slowly they circle,
foaming at the mouth,
eyes darting, irises focusing
on boiling liquids
flickering, blue flames.
Inside walls that stick to your skin,
they whisper dryly and look away
as God is passed down in arms
droplets of blood.
Hazy days, sleepless nights
heads turned towards unexpected sunlight–
“What’s this?” he asks, dry lips parting,
a croak, half silence, half repetition–
“What’s this?” she asks, purple finger trembling,
pointing to what used to be
stories and poetry filled with
thought and meaning.