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