two hundred feet below,
prostitues are pruning,
punters are prowling,
like hunters on safari, eyes scanning,
the streets in search of there catch.
the midnight creatures meow,
whilst the wind howls outside her dusty window.
hidden amongnst last nights debris,
alone, apart from some blackened needles,
and picked on pot noodles.
at the lonely light flickers,
a skelton with damp punctured skin,
shakes and taps its fingers on the floor,
rhythmically and unconsciously,
sounding out the beat of the beaten.
the abused has become the abuser,
in chemical clouds of bliss,
stinking of piss.
whimpering weakly like a wounded bird,
wings broken, hopelessly fighting,
Sam a now worthless victimn,
long ago, know,
Samantha was an object of desire,
gazed down upon,
with a smile that shone,
lavander scented skin,
and cute curls
which large friendly fingers swirled around.
Gone now is that nest,
the best years long gone.
hidden from view, in a tower for the lost and neglected,
sam slips away at 5am,
with the weapon of mass destruction,
still embedded in her arm.
written on her palm,
are the words
' it will only stop when i am gone'
samantha if free
at 5am she sleeps for eternity