In her Arms
In her arms:
White moon bright, the gypsy girl,
beneath the bridge in Kyustendil,
smiles wide,
flashing teeth as bright
as the cyclist skin – there to make a deal.
She’s always there.
Tonight she’ll hold her novice
As he cries away a dream
With drawn lines as crisp as Osogovo
cut sharp
Against heart-break hues
Lilac, violet, blues
It lasted only weeks,
Bitter most of them
But acid cuts scar deep
When sugar is applied
And crystalised in compressed time
It burns and burns again
Road side comfort, cheep to find,
Will blind the eyes that weep
For now
By morning’s chill though
Deep regret will acidify the pill
Only time
And more of that
Will mend his life-long ill.
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