Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

into the thaw of a dying winter
I have come to find you
beneath discarded shoes of bridges
where red rust is the graffiti of the sky
written in the blood of the rain

you are born there looking up
unspoken black in the hollow of the pipes
the channeled water of the hearts infrastructure
where bones find innocent children
to ask about the gravity of birds

beneath it all styrofoam cups fragment the wind
with answers along the trespass of fence
in voices cut with broken glass
thick against the brick walled stumbling night
of spring

welcome to S8.....You vividly paint a dismal picture that pulled me in to a scene where ragged souls hover around a fire barrel, a place that inspires little empathy from the rest of the masses that are already hurting themselves these days....
no matter how desperately, people continue to try to live.......and of course your poem could be metaphor for something entirely different...ha....in any case, I enjoyed it.........