Iron

her hair, silver, atop a skeletal frame, 

reflects the city she lives in, 

conveys eyes back upon themselves

she is crammed full of something

mysterious. 

to see her is to be worried, 

for her and about yourself, 

to know her is to know absence, 

the gaping hole in the centre of your soul. 

i still wander her streets, 

half entranced and half despair, 

bemoaning another left hand turn, 

down an alley that leads, 

to one lascivious door, 

up a murky set of stairs, 

upon a squeeking corridor, 

back out into the smoky air, 

this time on ground, 

100 metres in the sky. 

confusion has me beholden, 

it squeezes my cheek, 

and with a knowing glance, 

gives me a slap, 

licks me somewhere near my lips, 

and re-applies my handcuffs.

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