They draw a knife of grief and throw a razor to hell while slicing their courage thinner.
Their stomachs are deserted and their dreams are blinded, their pupils are dice shaken to pain.
They walk along with a suicide anthem as violence suckles their teazel life.
They are wasted of life and, definitely,
their history can be read in a welter of blood.
Their innocence is scratched out on their skin, their hopes capsized before sailing.
Desolate birds settle on their shoulders,
their necks are written cursive in every language
as the children of homelessness rot away from scratch.