Just after midnight and the streets are alive,
With toxins and abuse, men with wry smiles.
Women flustered, in ill-fitting dresses,
Men in the chase, lions in the grasses.
But its not grass, its glass,
And the streets are red glossy,
Shimmering sickly like an anti-social ballet.
Performers stumble, get hurt and forget their lines,
As the audience laughs.
The joys of night time.
And then it clears, the streets become empty,
Except one girl, raped in an alley.
Her screams go unanswered- she’s part of the show,
Inciting a sick passion, ready to overflow.
A thin stream of blood begins to flow,
As she’s abandoned- on pavement in dim light,
And tears melt what’s left of the makeup.
Full of fear and shame- just after midnight.
© Copyright 2016 Peter Neville . All rights reserved.
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