HOME | DD

Description
On any given Monday, one can see a kid holding a bottle of bourbon;
Down on the steps of the cathedral, resenting and repenting.

Hanging from his right sleeve is his pocketwatch, scuffed and scarred;
Dangling from the silver chain that holds it, just inches from shattering.

No-one dares goes past his eyes, an aura of doubt lingering on top of them all;
For they do not know if his senses are sober, or dulled to that of a bucking horse.

Held in his left hand is a tiny cigarette case, ajar with most contents intact;
Although the loose change and notes, along with a few sticks are there for all to claim.

Left with a hole in his memory, from what happened the nights previous;
Only that of his surroundings, his haunts and his neighbourhood would answer to.

The alleyways littered with the lowbrow, the jokers and the lurkers;
Wanting to trade their black steel for the personal touch, to get their fill of flesh.

Alluring calls from the red lights, placed at the same time to produce a chorus;
Instead of angels from the top, little town whores who sold their souls for others' pleasure.

The roaring groups crave entertainment, opting to sing in response with said chorus;
Twisted wires in sychronisation with karaoke, while under the influence of aniseed at the lounge.

At the end of it all, the room flooded with those wearing red roses and feather flurries;
It didn't do much good for him, much else for everyone else he was with.

Mondays are the day we see this seldom seen kid, drinking away for unknown reason;
Someday we might be alongside them, looking for an escape that can be justified on grounds.