Twisting through the midnight streets, we meander,
Touching any hope floating by.
The shadow of a tree makes me
pause. My eyes lean in and when they wrap themselves
around the little sunset globes, I cry.
I hate oranges.
Look, there are plastic stars resting on all the fences;
I wrestle them.
I lose and I sigh.
Black cats yowl, the yellow, hollow
O's of their eyes pulling me into the darkness.
I take a step back.
I'm on the outside now. I can taste it.
I'm walking alone, a single solider,
leading but not the leader,
but it's alright.
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Le Petit Biographie
- Alexia
- I laugh, I live, I think, I write (not necessarily in that order)... padam, padam indeed, Ms. Piaf. This poetry is almost always spontaneous and almost rarely edited.
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