Random Collection of Writings

Random Collection

Rose

Your love is like a red, red rose,

Wilting and dying.

Your love is like the bright light of the moon,

Borrowed and reflective of my own.

Your love is like the sun breaking at dawn,

Here a day, then gone.

Your love is like the sweet indulgence of chocolate,

A brief craving satisfied at once.

You were meant to be mine forever,

Yet now, you are no-one.

Only a stranger.

Busy Crossroads

The unrelenting sun beats down upon the earth, sending waves of heat toward the passers by at the crossroads. Rays of light are deflected from the metal exoskeletons of the purring vehicles below. Everywhere is smothered by a stifling blanket of warmth.

A young man stands on the corner of the street, his simple attire instantly marking him out as different. As he stoops down and places a hat on the scorching concrete in front of him, it becomes obvious that he is a street performer. He steps back, his well-toned body covered in a light sheen of sweat. Upon his belt is an array of knives and blades, glinting in the harsh sunlight. He takes them out as carefully as if he is handling antique china and begins to juggle them, slowly at first but gradually the speed increases. Realisation dawns upon the few pedestrians who begin to crowd around this charismatic man. The hustle and bustle of the crowds pushing to watch the young street performer, for a time overtakes the noise of the endless traffic.

On the other side of the crossroad to the performer and growing crowd is a hot dog stand. Sat on a stool next to the stand is a tall man of roughly middle age. He is wearing what used to be a clean white apron but is now stained with mustard and tomato ketchup. The air here is thick with the taste of slowly turning hot dogs, sending many peoples saliva ducts into overdrive. The taste of the American delicacy lies over the tongue like a curtain of unhealthy goodness. Sizzling invades the ears, it is the only thing people nearby can hear.

The piercing red of the traffic lights burn the irises as two purring vehicles wait to go. On the left hand side of the road is a Zafira, a family car. A woman is sat in the drivers seat, the dark rings underneath her eyes showing sleepless nights – and it's not hard to see why. Two unruly boys are seated behind her, fighting over what appears to be a bar of chocolate. The bar is slightly melted, dripping fat drops of chocolate onto the boys already filthy lapels. The woman sighs audibly and cranes her neck round to check the ensuing carnage. Weariness robs her of her strength, so she simply removes the chocolate bar and hands it wordlessly to a little girl seating besides the two boys. The girl takes it gratefully with a polite thank you. With normality restored to the car, boredom ensues for those within it.

On the right hand side of the road is a view into another world. A beautiful car is sitting there, thrumming quietly. The driver of the car is a young man, fresh-faced and formal. He is wearing a steel grey suit and waistcoat, his tie of the same lighter grey as the waistcoat. Upon his wrist gleams a Rolex. As he waits impatiently for the soft amber light to appear, the ticking of his watch gets ever slower as the seconds trickle by like treacle. A bead of sweat slowly rolls down his forehead until he angrily brushes it away, causing the droplet to land on the scorching leather of the passenger seat. A rhythmic drumming fills the air as the man beats his fingers against the perfect body of his car, a Porsche Carrera convertible.