Traps

Each to reach an own
bleached white by the Sun
that desiccates bone

I am oasis
an
Iridescent light
oil on silk screen
the colour of night.

My answer to how is why?
why ask of me
and with a hostility that
charges your veins,
how I got through it?

In the false eye of hope
where ‘smack’ dealers
smoke and where souls
are bartered,
there’s always the exit.

Price
so they say
is what I must pay.

time elongates
and
at the same time
it waits
hidden
in the
corners.

© 2017, John Smallshaw.