The Dead Willow stands over the small, lit-up bookies. It branches are recumbent outwards like
Tendrils as it stands in the way of what is a broken sequence of street lamps.
The bus stop
opposes, but the bus is very, very late. The bakery
Next door is closed, shadows wave behind the glass pane, and there's several bare displays in the front.
The bus flies around the
Corner and forgets the stop completely...
One of the street lamps flickers, and then it goes off.
YOU ARE READING
The Confessions of a 90's Kid
Poetry"Words are weapons: for warriors, for war heroes, for worrying teenagers and therefore for me."
