The Baroque Room

June 15, 2012
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The teenagers fly.

Athwart the streets of mayhem,

Smiles of deception and wry,

The doors have all been closed early and they're left howling in the artery of early morning thoroughfare.

The latitude they coveted is now inept.

Their darting eyes of ire plead with the affluent cats of the night,

Like begging bindles with hats for pin money,

Desiring only a floozy in an ashcan;

In the deadest dead of night.

Sleep that morning abashed and imbecilic.

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