Walk me to the time,
the street we walked eight years ago.
When all we saw was clocks move slow,
when life followed lines.
We could not read between the lines,
see behind facades.
So she would walk past,
lines crossed with the passage of time.
People on the street drag their feet,
as if they know too.
Blood filled with drugs makes fast heartbeat,
drum the Death March tune.
You knew I was waiting for May.
Addict’s debt repaid,
but addicts could stand in her way:
only we saw May.
Spring sparked to Summer,
Summer came down: Autumn, Winter,
eight rounds we fought, us, together.
Woke up bruised, splintered.
The street is haven for miscreants,
base, dependent youth.
Needles and silver spoons chase us.
We won’t numb the truth.
So, we will walk away.
Any comments and constructive criticism are always great to hear!
Should I still go?