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By Rebecca Charlotte
This is no Louisiana Fairy Tale
there are no more magical leftovers
shrapnel from a bygone age
where flapper feathers were more than just an accrual of dust
and streets were made of golden dreams.
Instead, the ground is full
of blood and hypodermic needles
bygone golden streets slowly sinking into rust.
The skies used to be so blue,
young hopeful faces staring up
tracing shapes in the clouds.
But now the hypodermic needles lie
all across the streets
fallen glass stars
The shrapnel of sweet temptation.
Such sweet temptation.
when you are trying to understand where
you are going,
worried about where
And you don’t know if the present is wrong
Sometimes all you can do
all there is
is a prick to slow the bleeding of time
It helps you find yourself,
in hidden signs.
Hidden signs in dreams
Hidden signs in the leaves
Hidden signs in the sounds of your breathing,
Any kind of sign,
I just need one to know
that it’s all leading somewhere.
That there’s a point to all these streets.