No red apple.
No beautiful tree.
Just a white envelope keeping time,
And a bin spewing out the desolate
And the damned onto the London street,
Where Eve is judged.
The night prowls by.
Words go unheard.
A bell tolls, the night collective appear.
Spilling out of bars in search of transient pleasure,
They take up the call to drum and bass and fail to notice
Eve’s fall from grace.
The 312 trundles by.
A sigh struggles free and arches
Against the backdrop of Snappy Snaps.
Fear, that manmade toxic, corrupts Truth
And Eve is banishéd.
Walking the streets of London