FORGOTTEN WORLD

The first time we kissed there was no rainbow neither the feel of butterflies dancing in my stomach. There was no music: nor golden specks of sun rays in the morning as it perched through dew. The beaconing of hope and flicker of desires of what was yet to be, burnt vehemently in our eyes; yet still remained elusive. But the angst,  the blood rush in my veins as our senses heightened, drove us to a distant world. A world broader than ourselves. Where, like waterlily on shores we could float. Lest we forgot to close our eyes. 
There was silence.  Nothing new. But the rhythm of our lips as they munched against one another in soft abrassion. The tasteless taste of saliva as they exchanged greetings in a two way traffic along a busy street; Was accompanied  by the natural scent of animals breathing ghastly; the sweat that formed the creases of their beings. Nothing ever came close to the power of sniffed glue till thy moment. The odour of our smell mattered not anymore.  This world, only but temporary, heeded better promises than begging for change along the streets.
Vehicles hooted. Mates, caught up in brawls over money, drugs,  or somebody took more than he ought to; more than once hurled bitter words against themselves. At night, the chaotic streets tend to be calm and kind, but not to my kind. In darkness We awoke as we keep tabs on the streets. Always out to make livelihood from the lives of the unkinds who carelessly become our prey. Patrol officers always on the watch,  they consider us as lost course. The masses distaste my kind. Enmity exists between my kind and the police. Shots frequently ricochets. Two days ago a stray bullet maimed One of us,  an eight year old boy. They called the press saying it was “robbery with violence, the authority had to act quick”. Shame. We are the infidels.
In chaos such as this, we find peace and happiness in our ownselves; however infinitesimal. Here, lies my crib,  my space.  No furniture but just piles of rags which plays the part of a bed. It’s dark. Needles for administering narcotics nakedly punctuates the floor. Here we lie. Assuming it’s the perfect place to be.  Oblivious to the sounds of cockroaches and rats in a hit and run on empty cans of whisky. There’s silence not anymore.  Her long dark nails embeds my back; scratching my skin, peeling off layers of my epidermis. My fingers braze her unkempt hair.
The first time we kissed we were high on glue; in our precipices it made us strong, made us who we are, to break the chains of hunger and forget of the outside world. We knew no better when to stop nor what   next. Duty was calling; I had to pull myself from her and be on the watch as others slept. This is my home. Dark, saddened with melancholic hues. This is a forgotten world where those who dwell survive. Not everyone thrives.
©Heart_Art_Poetics

Phill Ibsen 

(Master Of Descriptions) 

2017