Head down.
Avoid contact of the eye,
a soundless pact with the sky.
I'll keep my gaze on the ground,
if you promise
to protect from on high.
Keep to yourself. Voice, silent.
On this side of town
things can quickly turn violent.
The smell of weed clings to the air,
growing like a vine on a trellis.
It persists, climbing
into every crack it can find.
Scratching itself into
the dense atmosphere.
Top off, tattooed bod,
walks in the cold chill air.
"Who wants some? Come on
I’ll take on everyone."
Screeched from the top
of his scarred lungs.
Where are the plod?
White lines stretched out
somewhere behind,
but that thin blue one
is long gone
Don't look. Don't glance up.
Just watch the cracked paving underfoot.
Keep to yourself. Head lowered.
On this side of town, always walk forward.
Don't look around.
There is always someone
ready to put you down.
Your grave is already dug,
Shallow, somewhere in the hallowed mud.
Car screeches past,
zipping around corners,
weaving down invisible roads.
Bounding over speed humps,
before they come to a halt.
Fist bumps as they bolt
into the darkness of night.
No police in sight.
Streetlights flick off. Cash over lives.
A gang member runs,
one lay screaming out.
A glint in the moonlight.
Blade, red and bright.
Just another victim
of these streets,
on another cold night.
Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff
You can find my New books
"Tales from the 44A" and "Stations
here
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DBKXPN13/
and here
continue to do this.
Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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