The Lost Ones

By Lynn Octavius Green

Angels sit on their invisible perches,

huddled together

like pigeons on a cold

winter night, and watch.

Suffering surrounds them at

every turn, yet all they do

is watch.

Where is the beauty in suffering?

Why does Mercy hide her face from us?

The Angels watch as the century-old

iron rods swell, breaking their

concrete encasement. Cracks run

across the once sturdy architecture.

These walls and the floors become moist.

Just breathing takes a Herculean

effort.

Where are you, Mercy?

Do you hate us

because we’ve made mistakes?

Are we not the roses that grew from the

concrete, like Tupac Shakur spoke of?

It’s hard to breathe.

Brackish water fills my sink basin.

Lead and rust surround my cage of

concrete and metal. I can taste

their poison in my ramen noodles,

I can feel their metallic particles on my skin.

It’s hard to breathe.



Calls for help fall on deaf ears, as

the Angels sit on their invisible perches,

huddled together like pigeons

on a cold winter night,

and watch.