Rust

It ached against the stillness of

her being. Intrusive, agitated;

crawling past deafening colours

splattered across her seams.

 It pushed.

Screams muffled in deadened spaces,

transients trapped; struggling to stay

afloat as swirling shimmers of

life engulfed her pallid breath.

Buoyant, her cognizance pulled

from the ebbing depths of past-

forgiven tragedies buried abyssal;

a flickering scintillation; writhing,

rupturing the pressure, breaking

through her darkness.

She smiled.

The Whore's Daughter

Red. She dreams red every night,

veiled moans and muffled screams drip

black and grey; dirty scars, fresh gashes.

A kiss on the forehead,

her disheveled mother, burdened by

sins of manhood. Rumpled notes earned

with stains of forsakenness, safe inside

the pencil box. Skimpy legs uncertain

on a path yet unknown, hurrying

before the first bell.

She knows.

Words  unkind, labels cruel.

The whore’s daughter,

teachers call her. Confusion unbridled

of late. Define whore, she says.

She has her mother, scores of aunts

and camaraderie of other skimpy legs,

laughter, sobs, fights and hugs;

A family.

Orange turns to night, the street

festive with colours of hope,

whispered secrets of lust and loathing,