Pisaries Creator

Cold and damp like the room next door,
people's veins thawing out as the ice melts,
watch them turn red.

Know there aren't coats thick enough,
not in a place like this for warmth,
and they will stop searching.

For the wandering animals outside,
their desperate voices swallowed by gusty winds,
the rain beating harder on the bodies.

Hear the busy streets and fast cars,
ears stuck to cellphones and human mouths opening
wide as fish do with a lure. 

The unintelligent conversations are heard by few,
and it's enough distraction to murder plants,
stomping on their last minute of life. 

The flowers should feel the sun's heat,
not pulled up by worker's hands and tossed into
a dark bag without water.

For one can end up in the drain,
traveling in one direction and water in the other,
leading to the ocean delight.

Feel the familiarity of the space and people,
ice chunks hugging tightly to all who breathe, 
even the motionless long for understanding.