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.