The Walk

Table lamp snow shade,
Turned on for its enemy,
Lighting the way of the cigarette,
It burns with the sting of alcohol,
Making things ever so enjoyable.

Star mirrored ponds,
Flicker with the slightest drop,
The blood is from a raven,
Dark in flight,
We run from ourselves.

Little brown outlines,
Around a delicate hand,
Caressing an ever-sharp blade,
Shimmering in the moonlight,
Illuminating the way home.