There is a dead god,

lying on the pavement outside the shopping centre,

Curled up in the fetal position like he’s sleeping peacefully in the deserted street,

His four detached arms outstretched,

Metres away from the bustle of cheap clothes.

A sacredness surrounds him and travels down the street

Hearts are broken open from their stitched reputations

as a family walks out of the shops, and onto the street,

Ignoring the god for their conversation.

A few hours later, he was still there