John stole a book (shiny and new
and not smelling quite right
but close enough to hurt)
and scurried through the city streets,
losing himself in the gaping maw
of a hazy black alleyway
that looked a little like home.
Shaking fingers scrabbled through pages,
worrying edges and bending corners;
‘Forget forget forget’ writhing
up and down the margins,
each letter teeming
with desolation.
He threw the book into a puddle,
Ink bleeding and reforming
‘Jane Jane Jane…’ |
Submission Name: John 3: Ink
