Many plague the streets—
day and night—
and he mourns for each
like a long lost lover—
dead, some dying
and the healthy ones
would soon fall ill
that’s what happens
when you come through
a wringer
reserved for bigger fish
but, alas, they are weak
he thought— in mind,
in body, in the soul
blaming the heart
for of all
it is the only part
that talks— even in beats;
even when its main
function
is to pump life
all else is but subjective
all else is for the weak