I thought they were dead

as they slept in daylight hours,

vampire like with pale grim faces

and under stubble they lay.

Death would be a release

some might say, wrapped

in their own ivy, cheered by their own disease,

but as the underpass

feels the cool thunder of running traffic

and exhausts compassionately

spewing its own toxic hue

in the memories of those with eyes closed

and for us, those that walk on by

with either disgust in their eyes

or sadness under their taught cheekbones