Not much time, but small wins the race.
Down in the basement, all porcelain and perspective, the ramshackle seating laid bare upon the tiles, people spoke, line after line and poet after poet, a gradual appreciation only erased by the rush of expectation.
The notion of support, community, a circle of sharing holds up well in the alley. Impropriety and disillusioned catcalls fell like leaves ahead of their time and something, a trial, was dropped.
Nothing to boast of, but something accomplished, an honesty with my love, and today the occasion that we wait all year for, the culmination of feud and fury.
Red is the colour of blood.