Carnage

Do you ever ask yourself as you walk past

the long, endless row of identical houses

that maybe, somewhere in a dark cold room,

between washed-out damped walls,

an old woman, feeble and sad,

is dying?

Do you ever wonder if

all that remains in the end

is a blue sweater,

plastic flowers in plastic cups,

a gathering of crows,

silent sobs from people long forgotten?

Do you ever escape 

the mortal song of the crows-

repetitive and harsh.

What is it saying?

Do you ever feel that the world-

the raucous television,

the hectic screaming and irregular sirens

the delirious lighting of bright, busy streets

are all that we see?

Can we afford to live

such an absent, immaterial life

knowing that the crows,

those obnoxious creatures,

rise from the forgotten remains 

of a sparrow?