Where the Poet Roams
Dark dirty streets live in my mind Broken brick alleyways, The colour of blood in the midnight. Streetlamps from another era fasten me here for a short while. The warm stickiness of the old time city grime, it's endless, never removed. And I wonder Is this how it's done? Where the last step of a Jazz duo lay, where the putrid decay of the dirty city lives? Where words are scrawled across walls in warm blood, Is this where you find the poem? Or just the poet? Looking.