CallaWolf's Creations

**Calla_Wolf** · 11-28-2007 03:35 PM

Invisible

The city, sweet seduction
wrapped in a bitter haze,
secretes damp despair over
the huddled girl.

Her vacant eyes stare
from within the crusted parka
as her cracked voice begs change
from the intoxicated swarm.

Pleading, her gaze tracks cellulite queens,
their honey trap thighs
displayed to lure intoxicated eyes.
Scratched glass voices
gather hunters beneath stilettoed heels,
a slavering pack scenting
procreative musk.

Spirit shot eyes, lusting
to play diseased roulette in alleys,
disregard her huddled heap.
Caste invisible by affronted ideals,
her shivering shatters the grace
of their breeding boogie.

Then they see and point;
howling hyenas, hungry
for vulnerable prey.
"Gerra job," shrieks one;
her companions chorusing
taunts and chants as she cowers,
a hare in the heat of the hunt.

She sighs as the pack,
sated by her tears,
moves on and the old man
approaches, note in hand
like an excuse on sports day.
His smile, a weak crescent
like an apologetic moon,
broadens to a gapped grin
as they find a hidden alley.

As a penitent she kneels,
a disciple in a city
of pleasures, her body aroused
by the promise of food.
Darkness hides their act,
a five minute play beneath
indifferent stars.

Unacknowledged, she leaves him,
his fumbling fingers packing
his flaccid embarrassment
back into soiled jeans.
She walks tall, his twenty
sitting in her pocket
like a passport to tomorrow,
her hunger awake
to the promise of satisfaction.

**Calla_Wolf** · 11-28-2007 03:37 PM

Virtual Fruit

He sits alone,
haunted by thoughts
that lie jumbled
like crumpled papers.

The words come hard;
hammering fingers
dancing, arrhythmic,
as he fights for cohesion.

Surrounded by the detritus
of a solitary life he sways,
intoxicated by grape and gluttony
as his fantasies darken,
encouraged by anonymity.

Virtual chatter skims the screen,
the words of global phantoms
he sees in his own reflection
on the iridescent display.

Faster…
Faster…
Faster...
His mind forms the lies
that travel from his fingers,
cerebral pulses
set to stalk an innocent world.

He is twelve, fourteen or ten.
Anonymous, he is the ideal
for she who sits alone
dreaming of romance,
youthful prey on
this hunter’s digital safari,
docile in her innocence
as he sets the traps.

Communication…
Masturbation...
Gratification…
Mantras thrum through lines
that transmit illusions and images.
Lives cascade, voices entwined
in electronic pulses of minds and circuits,
multitudes mingling like Oxford Street masses.
Yet each sits alone, as does he.

**Calla_Wolf** · 11-28-2007 03:42 PM

Lonely Pathways

I lie here in my darkness,
the night wrapped all around,
no hope, no warmth to touch me
in my misery, profound.
The weight of life now drowns me,
it takes me to my end.
I am losing my long war,
my heart I can’t defend.

I wish that she’d look my way,
I wish she’d take the time
to look into my heartache
and listen to my rhyme.
But she has chosen her way,
and I am left with mine;
alone to tread the pathways
of my life in decline.

I’m lost, I’m left without her;
I cannot struggle on.
My life has lost its meaning
without her in my song.
And as the dawn approaches,
I’ll wish upon last star,
that she’ll come back to my life
before I go too far.

I know my wish is helpless,
my hope died long ago;
and I am left with nothing,
a dream that cannot grow.
So I’ll tread lonely pathways,
I’ll walk my life alone;
and pray that she might join me,
my queen upon her throne.