Thread: Message to the Sheriff (ATN: Janus 11-10-09)

A flowery poem left on a scented sheaf of paper in the city Elysium. The hidden meaning is couched in the pretty words.

Sheriff

I stay at the spot, where coffee is brewed and poets decry,
and he knows that my breath is infected with death
for a kiss or a touch,
or the sound of a hush,
and the wind doesn't blow and the tree doesn't grow,
and I cease to exist in that moment of time,
and I can't see the difference between caffeine
and my breath,
in the frozen footsteps of that long-winding path,
around which his sandals stepped, weary of me.
But Wednesday, at dark, I'll step out of the cold,
and the heat will be as blaring as the emotion I loathe,
and a degenerate will be sitting in a rich leather booth,
waiting for you to break her solitude.