A mere virtuous soul would have not been swayed through simple tricks of flattery,
Her features fashioned a canvas of aged paint, fraying, idle,
as if some dismal sinner dare use her as a subject,
cast across a tapestry of immoral fabrics
delicately naked,
each stroke accentuated an air of ill-earnt feminine
self dignity,
She spoke shivers through poor connection
As if bound in golden chains of high class hierarchy
“I am confound to a train,
Tears
the natives are simple primates
bodies addle the ground and they are content with this,
well enjoy your kingdom of dirt you
vulgar poverty stricken cretins”
our eye’s met,
Sharing solely a
hard earned misanthropic relationship..
I played a simpleton mute, feigning concentration whilst her senile monologue ruined my seldom required occupation of carriage observation,
The imagined locomotive only dared plunge deeper, as the steam dispersed, prying open the heavy curtains welcoming wooden carriages, in which our damaged middle class bones entwined,
amidst this fascist Hitler harlots tyrannous dictatorship
though I acknowledged the numeral located upon me, and the inevitable
corridor in which I would acquire my final right of passage
I dared gaze up prying lips apart as a sluggish feeble gasp crawled out from within.
The unfortunate are fortunate enough.
Léon Reinhardt 21 days of age.
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