Few things live
In this garden of
Thirsting flowers
Petals scattered
Like headstones
Among cracked,
Disintegrated
Stems
Shattered skeletons
Of tree branches
Lying on powdered dirt
Dogs may tear every limb
Time may desecrate it all
But warmth beats
Below the surface
Stretches in the fingers of roots
Crackles into the dried veins
Of the forgotten
And with every bit murdered
Every part abandoned
It still belongs to him
