blood runs to the gutters,
flowing and whirling,
a sluicing pink juice
that circles and sloshes
down the drain
most did not feel
the missing blood,
but it came from
each and every one
of them -
the locals, the exiled,
the travelers, and
the ne'er-do-wells -
all bled into the city,
and something grew
from that protein slurry
most contributed only
drips & drops,
but some hemorrhaged,
giving their liquid selves
for something
they couldn't
anticipate
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the !n(tro)verted yogi 
Great flowing lines. Open to interpretation by the reader. And deep.
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thanks
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👌👌👌😁📷
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thanks
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Excellent writing. A scene played out through time and places.
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oooo, ooo so sad
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