The Poetry Corner

Period

By Alfred Lichtenstein

The deserted streets flow in gleaming light Through my dull head.And hurt me. I clearly feel that I shall soon slip away - Thorny roses of my skin, don't prick like that. The night grows moldy.The poison light of the lampposts Has smeared it with green muck. My heart is like a bag.My blood freezes. The world is dying.My eyes collapse.