Straws glued together green,
brushing against cracked soles.
Slithering steps winding along
jungles of ants and rats.
Dried blossoms a few amongst
a field of yellow daffodils.
The scent spreads across excess
of flesh desired, and allowed.
Sixteen pale stars across a red sky,
Silver fern rising from beryl earth,
dancing violently on tender wrists,
pausing to sleep at the neck of a ring.
Lights changed colors, predictably.
Relief and rush mingled and crashed.
She blushed, glowed and sighed
and an eight rolled down with a click.
He chanced a hasty glance at the mirror,
catching an elusive whiff of tobacco.
Streets crossed, lanes changed by turn,
the coin given away by his time.
Scaling a dusty hundred and five steps,
crossed the bridge of no streetlamps.
A minute late and fifteen strides away, only.
But the books had already gone to sleep.