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Little Lolita
eloquently descends
a rickety staircase.
Dressed all in black,
vodka's on her breath.

Somewhere in this city
of evil, innocence lives.
Not here though, no not here.

She makes her way
through the maze of filth,
while the minute hand on her clock
echoes the clicks of her stilettos.

Leaving the shelter of the doorway,
she's frozen for a second;
winter's cold air hits her.

Flinching, she hopes for something warmer.
More vodka perhaps, or the drug
which leaves its mark upon
her tattooed arm...of needle hits.

Once she played among daffodils.
Running in copious showers,
the rain fell upon her upturned face.

How did she get here?
This question plagues her.

On a dark street,
with chrome plated vehicles and
black hearted people,
she stands.

A car slows down,
she needs the money.
A trick is turned.

One day they will murder her.
Leaving her on the ground
wrenching in death.
Her blood will drain out...

A runaway dies, alone,
in the shadows.
Vodka upon her breath,
needle marks upon her arms...

Parents at home waiting.
Hoping and praying for her return,
not knowing she will never come home.

1 comment:

Ambre said...

You painted a stark picture of a very present darkness, in so many lives...


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