The Scarlet Thread Anthology: Cobblestones

I walk along cobblestone streets, where my footsteps echo,

And I am found underneath the caustic lights, my breath a neon cloud in the moon’s lambent shadow.

The streets are adorned in litter; confetti of a faded dream.

They speak, but they say nothing.

Dark figures of a haunting sameness that has robbed their spirits.

A once-burgeoning flower, deprived of sunlight and strangled by your velvet ropes.

A light that illuminated the darkness, washed away by words so chilled and piercing.

They are the proselytes of profanity, the converts of sorrow.

Autonomous though they are, they are grey and bleed propriety.

Puppets on a string, every fiber of their souls scream dazed thoughts in an infertile mind.

Their souls have been raped, and now they wither back into shadows of conformity.

By Peter Wysocki

Photo via (cc) Flickr user jbelluch (Jake Bellucci)


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