Few things live

In this garden of 

Thirsting flowers

Petals scattered 

Like headstones

Among cracked,

Disintegrated 

Stems

Shattered skeletons

Of tree branches 

Lying on powdered dirt

Dogs may tear every limb

Time may desecrate it all

But warmth beats 

Below the surface

Stretches in the fingers of roots

Crackles into the dried veins

Of the forgotten 

And with every bit murdered

Every part abandoned

It still belongs to him