Queen Street

The Queen unravels
upon her knees.
Goblin lights entice
with might and manners galore,
carnal desires within the doors.
She is icy still,
absent from the dispersing,
splintering crowd.
A silent self congratulate.

A suspended smile whisked
away by a trench coat.
Her perfect face
a waste of time, as rain
drags her paint down to the sea.
They play the paramedics;
snort, snuff, puff their way
up the street like asthmatic
hamsters.

Bloodied lips beg for a smoke,
addiction giving meaning to survival.
Their hands clutch masks,
as they briskly judge
who is deserving
of their fifty cent coin.

The lack of purpose stings more here.

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