It is the last
Warm day of autumn
As they stroll down
The back alley of hard life
They are young, beautiful gods,
Full of light and combustible energy,
Draped in a shroud of decadence,
Wandering through a twentieth-century dreamscape.
The girl with hair like the wind
Moans a shudder
As the brown-eyed boy
Licks a shard of glass
And slices open his tongue
Tasting the salty blood in his mouth
He thinks,
This must be the taste
Of drowning in the ocean.
To her it is the smell of
Death in a slaughterhouse.
Warm day of autumn
As they stroll down
The back alley of hard life
They are young, beautiful gods,
Full of light and combustible energy,
Draped in a shroud of decadence,
Wandering through a twentieth-century dreamscape.
The girl with hair like the wind
Moans a shudder
As the brown-eyed boy
Licks a shard of glass
And slices open his tongue
Tasting the salty blood in his mouth
He thinks,
This must be the taste
Of drowning in the ocean.
To her it is the smell of
Death in a slaughterhouse.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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