To be, To not be Heard

Small delicate fragile bodies that drip from the tip of the tongue

Of the dog who lays underneath the

Miles of death and decay- who gently

Lays them in their graves.

They never have a voice only made up of mumbles of sorrow

And swirls of despair.

They’re here because nobody wanted them

Out there.

They know very well that their lives only add up

To the sharp point of the knife that’s shoved into their short lives. Heart no longer

There. Only the soft beat of their

Broken bones that tremble out of fear.

Fear that is outside of the comfortable coffin they’ve nailed

Shut. 

They like the darkness because nobody can see the insides that are filled

With grief.

They cry out of their mouths with silent screams.

Nobody can hear a dead body.