Heads in the clouds scrutinize heads in the sand while indifferent eyes of the storm wink.
Plywood barriers bang over broken spaces, replacing once welcoming windows.
Urban archeologists excavate nihilist strata; dig through layer upon layer of graffiti that coats facades in tagged proclamation.
Foul winds churn leftover sirens and horns blare as the stomping ground eats more powder kegs and tire squeals.
Dust-up wranglers come to blows; get cut and culled by waves of apprehension and capricious gunplay.
Smash grab culprits brandish ball bat sneak attacks and stiletto stabbings.
Blood stained back alleys leak eerie screams of curdling complaint and silences of uncertain intent, finally spilling across domestic streets.
Junkyard cats dance a dirty dog of flying fur and snarling growls amongst the head butts and choke holds and needles.
Too many hard years, carved like petroglyphs on too many discarded faces, tell too many forgotten stories.
Seemingly determined to flame out, this village torches itself.
Even so, I remain. It is in me.