by Melissa R. Bickel

Created on: July 21, 2007   Last Updated: December 22, 2008

Runaway

Little Lolita
eloquently descends
a rickety staircase.
Dressed all in black,
vodka's on her breathe.

Somewhere in this city
of evil, innocence lives.
Not here though, no not here.

She makes her way
through the maze of filth,
while the minute hand on her clock
echoes the clicks of her stilettos.

Leaving the shelter of the doorway,
she's frozen for a second by
a blast of winters air.

Flinching, she hopes for something warmer.
More vodka perhaps, or the drug
which leaves its mark upon
her tattooed arm of needle hits.

Once she played among daffodils.
Running in copious showers,
the rain fell upon her upturned face.

How did she get here?
This question plagues her.

On a dark street, with
chrome plated vehicles and
black hearted people,
she stands.

A car slows down,
she needs the money.
A trick is turned.

One day they will murder her.
Leaving her on the ground
wrenching in death.
Her blood will drain out.

A runaway dies, alone,
in the shadows.
Vodka upon her breathe,
needle marks upon her arms.

Parents at home waiting.
Hoping and pray for her return,
not knowing she will never come home.

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