The Other Key to the City

High mountains trip through
pure air gliding past green limbs.
Rushing water, simple yet necessary. 
But we do not stop there.

Into the pollution of greed,
smoky walls of the encampment
fail to veil the scent of money,
of unquenchable lust.
 
Intoxicated glow blares madly.
Patterns spiral as though beautiful.
But there is something wrong.
Rhythm lacking. Madness excessive.
 
Deceptive trolls leer between the cards,
rushing the ponies as they prance
from their shabby stables to deliver
concoctions of purebred untruths.
 
Agenda without business.
Invitation minus place.
As the room rekindles flame,
one weary mind melts away.
 
Canned heat, empty music, and
too many bodies lurching, taking.
Without their sense of time,
stars wilt soft by an artificial sun.
 
Bursting out of the chasm,
one figure exhales deeply,
while the other struggles against
the tug of chance's reversal.
 
Beckoning, brainwashing, seducing,
a factory of unattainable dreams
and contagious wealth sucks in the
susceptible wisp of a soul. Vacuumed.
 
There is no harmony in this night.
Fists against walls, spilling red.
Cracked forehead oozing.
Eyes small and to the point. 
 
A body hugs the pubescent gutter
flailing in the street, shyly smudged.
Canary yellow stilettos embarrassed
by the decay of potential joy.
 
Whirlwind pauses, hovers, before
careening off to refresh the sting.
Venomous veins of ineptitude
laid bare to the mouth of a hoax.

Door pings open to explain.
THIS was the reason for dual keys,
two keys in a pod but destined
to go their separate ways.
 
Room inhales shame sharply,
as form shudders against the wall
of windows, seven stories proud.
Street blights wink lechery.
 
A call to the past finds no response.
and horizon is questioned. Something like,
what to do when someone is past saving?
Who will survive if only one of two can?

Small boat rocks at the edge,
tipping with internal frenzy.
Casualties familial like furniture.
A lamp beheaded, weeping.
 
Guards come to take him away,
hollering through the thin door,
But sparrow sits on silent nest,
sighing with newfound secret.
 
Before the hurricane, a breeze,
tearing at branches. Though harmless,
sour intent does nonetheless foul earth
with jagged breath, in and out.
 
Dismembered body of time,
please regard me with compassion.
Though we were not close,
I grew to know you much too well.
 
I was not impressed.

 

 Jennifer Burnside

October 7, 2014