Out of the wild

My poor broken child,
Has life been unkind?
Is there no one to lift you?

Your time, it’s true, was dark
A world of silhouettes, cigarette smoke,
A place where light faltered,
Intimidated, burdened
With the smell of whiskey.

The wind blew tough at night,
When only fear lit the path ahead.

So here we are, the last of us,
Swizzle-eyed and weary,
Our wounds only for imagining;

I find these signs vexing.
Into the night with us, then
Let’s take what we can carry,
Let the rest decay.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s