he wonders as the river passes

no more return tickets
we lost the inbound and the outbound trains,
airplanes, fine signs of our pathetic like lifes
with no day nor night

the ruins of our fleshless cities
flooded with tears
sour with all that salt
that will preserve our feces
for the insects to
smoothly analyze
as we cease to exist
while clapping for the executioner
to persist

no dying rituals no mourning sighs
nothing but the silence that mortifies
the flowing river
with no passer bys

All of this he wonders, as the river passes,

dreaming of the life he had

           and the river weeps

knowing it is so darn late