o V can y I should say.
The dead neon eye stares on the side of darkened road,
casting a pallor of life like light,
that is a dusk of some arcane dawn.
Esoterica the erotica of forelorn folk
who gather along formica tables,
and slurp sugar infested coffee,
Speak in gravel voice of the aliens,
or the folk, or vampyre shades that slurry
through the air of this hollow land.
Gaunt figures aged by etched hours,
of soot and smoke and fumes.
I huddle close to your arm.
You know I do not belong here,
and yet you lead me on to the paper thin room,
and the rock hard bed.
To partake of some pleasure that your own life denies,
and mine cries out for.
I am 18, and do not know yet,
that what is happening,
is bitter wrong.