Wilt


I am just a waif of a daint,
And would blow away if gust of wind would so choose to carry me.
But the wind here is so faint,
It just wouldn't carry me.

Schmoozy booze hounds painted the night crimson.
The woman and her suitor walked down oleander walkways.

I am just growing limbs,
And would grow away if my feet were planted more firmly.
But the earth here is soiled and grim,
It just couldn't bury me.

They listened to the music and moaning of the streets.
The notes of jazz horns and smooth voices floated around them.

I am just a looking glass,
And would look within if it meant not looking back.
But the glass here has shattered,
It will never reflect again.

She felt cocooned in a blanket of filth.
The industrial streets cooed with machinery.
The cobblestone and antiqued street lights,
were the only replicas of old.

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