The Killing Streets---

The lost,
the forgotten,
the unfortunate.

Tortured souls,
they walk the unforgiving streets
in search of their next fix.

WAlking like gouls from their tombs,
their bloody hands, and broken faces.

Some push their lives around in a grocery cart,
sadness walking with them, every step,
through their days.

Sadness never leaves.

The streets where they troll,
covered in grime, of their blood,
sweat, and tears, of the ones that love them.

Someone's daughter,
another's son.

They howl in the night,
wrestling with the demons,
their screams muffled by the dampness.

Sadness, in the city streets of East Hastings,
the very dumping ground,
where Robert Picton plucked his victims,
like a vulture, at a garbage dump.

The crack version,
so broken, so lost,
easier prey than a mouse to an owl.

The sickness, and sadness of the killing streets,
urge me to walk faster,
my arms held close to my body,
I stroll through,
like a spirit in the day.

WAlking amoungst them, like being in a real life horror flick,
enough to make you sick.

Michael Jackson's Thriller,
has nothing on this real life horror story.

Relfections of a day---in the big city.

Airlover