We know it will kill us,

But we do it anyway.

Huddled together,

Like this.

In this place of ill repute.

The townsfolk think poorly of us.

But I am sure

Someone in here,

Has read Rimbaud.

Written poetry,

Dreamt of Dante.

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I walk in wonderment,

Through these Winter streets,

Stalks of sodium glare.

I will walk forever if needed,

To be with Heather and her hyacinth hair.

If I walk these distances,

Will the past recede?

A year for every yard perhaps,

Until we are forever young,

In a Vampire’s lair.

Bloody kissing Heather and her hyacinth hair.

We are every bird in flight,

W...

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