Poetry
FORSAKEN
I: Whitechapel
Crumbling walls and broken plaster,
Heaps of bricks, tortured ceiling dripping,
Severed cables and frayed wires
Hanging limply from decaying masonry.
Here, in the corner, exposed to the weathers;
A pale mouldering mattress, with broken springs,
And on it a young girl, hair cut with broken glass,
Her skin marred by an eternity of grime,
All glassy eyes and bone-dry lips.
Her skin is marked with a thousand cuts,
Each one a painful release, a powerful reminder.
She arches her back in fleeting ecstasy,
Feeling the breath of another,
With dirty fingernails and ragged hair,
and ribs visible through skin; equally scarred.
Their fingers knit each other,
Flesh on flesh, forgotten troubles,
Just a kiss, ephemeral.