Inside Laneways

A little dark, but I missed the boat on this one, writing it at 2am this morning from a word list I missed by a whole week. So I guess being tired did not help while considering what follows now.

Not frying eggs, falling water.

Inside laneways

Narrow fills as gaps, a gaping hole threaded in twisted steel, in cinder blocks surround what shivers beneath a mind,

While winter rain dances to a basement bar, bleeding people and perhaps those sounds to blues, maybe jazz,

As a faux warmth in a brown paper bag, whiskey in a bottle feels good here inside dark uncharted shadows,

Where swollen hands grasp tight to both brown paper bag and a condemned overhang above, trying to keep dry,

Within a cavity’s ruin remains long past its use by date, though still denial renders an unsound reasoning to consider,

Perhaps to call such a place in decay, home; where on these long nights old newspapers mask an eroded concrete floor,

Back inside this manmade cavern, while an obituary pasted to a room’s cracked buckled wall, reminds this last resident,

About days in better times before chaos and death came to town, taking her entire family with a consolation, she survived,

So few expectations populate her mind each night now, but to keep warm and feed a hunger deep within, on scraps of memories,

Here, wait, the rain’s easing; while still strong winds cut sway up the laneway along condemned and surviving built worlds,

Looking up above, her eyes fixate on her little sister’s window, where a last curtain rattles notes on chimed tassels,

Memories flood her soul as slow slips whiskey in a bottle down through this brown paper bag’s bottom, jittering a dance on pavement intune

Before falling over, tumbling out of these uncharted shadows to spill it’s pain dulling contents amongst the lane’s litter,

So, her body tired, she stands up, restless, staring at the bottle before turning to climb a broken drain pipe, reaching for her sister’s window,

To a worn graffiti, poem inscribed window seat, where she waits on each morning’s small hours to grow, and time to bath her in fresh sunshine before returning,

Below once again to wander a city’s now many quiet streets, for perhaps just one more lonely hour in remembrance, before departing for another land, a new life.

laneway

Write away...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s