Seventeen Street.

[StevieFinn]

The lad who was presumed wasted
faces his reflection in the filth grey floor;
On a wintry old devil of a decadent street,
that lusted at night, shining in neon thrall.

The grinning gutter greets with a knowing wink,
as an array of garbage filled gaps,
scream out loud from their concrete teeth,
while tired exhausts cough, and somehow sneer.

Ant like, he is hunched by his heavy load;
A long time carried ragbag worth nothing;
A slap started cancer of cold sharp despair;
An iron forged accumulation of self loathing.


Later in his safe but lonely haven,
he dreams of moon streams and Irish mist,
of balconies with smiling rooftops singing,
and an old attic composed of a first furtive kiss.

Hello,

This is a great composition - you have attracted another follower of your work. I look forward to reading your future works. Again, great writing...

From,
Robbie Reaper

Thank you for your support - I hope I don't disappoint you