The shallow hollow faces of the oldest profession look across the landscape with empty gazes,
The rain drenched streets reflecting the mood of the observer, dank, moribund, sadness,
Smoke filled bars line the once affluent neighborhoods....predators that feed upon the soulless putrid flesh of the dope fiends whom were once high class business men.
The parks once a place of fun and laughter now harbor gangs and prostitution!
The rickety skeletons of the founding fathers twist and sway upon the evening breeze, flesh stripped from their bones by the crooked politicians that promised change and redemption,
Crows fatened off the sweet, sweat of the underbelly line the empty above head wires.
Mailboxes that once boasted Christmas greetings and happy birthday wish, have grown over with weeds and lay falo!
Mindless throngs of jobless, nobles stream to the unemployment office to beg for scraps from the rich mans plate only to have the door slammed in their face!
A poem by Christopher L. Lisenbee