The softest of sighs entwine with a pair naked eyes,
Who would've known compassion coud've been this dry?
I'd never known how it is to shoot. Bull's eye-
the ashes I knew defy, as the skates glide on
ice. I freeze.
A young woman skims across the sheet of crystal,
her face contorted into one of sleaze, she twirls and whirls
in counterfeit delight as she's probbed with critical scrutinies,
Her scarlet skirt jerks and blue eyes shimmer with something that is
vividly not passion.
Another floats past me, small as a button, nose high
as though sniffing the air. He staggers, balance wavered but
maintains his might, encased with fabric as sincere as truth,
cackles erupt every minute as he dirfts behind the
all too familiar hand.
Acidic winds jam themselves around the rink,
We all halt, waiting.
The spleen silence is over-bearing as
the lights begin to blur,
Objects shuffle and out of nowhere comes another
soft sigh.
L.S.
