Misguided

I’m hanging on the eve of your sleeve, because you wouldn’t believe that I would grieve when you would leave behind all the bereaved weavers on the street, ready to meet the fleet of crushing feet, full of sleet and freezing heat.

She peered at the back of his boots. They were the colour of dried blood on asphalt.

You said it was my head, you said it as you bled the blue of my youth onto the path that you tread with all the truth that was only misled, and I have to wonder at the wonder that wanders through my dread, that ponders through the dead.

She held the tips of his fingers, caked in mud and too many scars.

Like a valley of molten steel, swimming with the blue-black of broken toys and singed sleeves, where torn hems and tangling seams have no place to go but the cracked lines of dirty sidewalks and sickly green sewers. Weep not, streetlight, flickering bleak and sallow, these heavy breaths will lift from this dying beast, its heaving chest nothing more than a husk full of rust and dust.

Father, Father, save me.

Eyes too like mine won’t seem to shine beyond the grime, the crime, on hollow cheeks that refuse to be weak, as you turn to me with a sad smile, without guile, because you’ve already done your worst, first on the list you wrote in my little fist.

“No one will ever hurt you again.”

~Noct…………………