POETRY: 'Untold' by Robert Drake

Those stories about him,
I wonder if they were true.
Fallen angel, lonely soldier,
sole survivor.
Enchained to the streets,
he fell in love with the game.
She had crack pipes for lungs,
HIV eyes, syringes
occupied her fingertips, she wore
the smell of blood as her perfume
because it entices him so.
Her bottle pop legs, complimented by
the clothes she would wear;
stripped from the backs off men
who she once lured but now denied.
Her eyes glow green with the logo
of our dreams
because she had an obscene
obsessed for all rings.
He would poison his neighborhood
to buy her the bling, he would flood
the scene with C’s just to
drink the tears from her eyes.
She would make him cool
even teach him how to fly
if his engines ever stall and he plummets from
the sky.
For he loved her, he had no choice
bound by the promises
sealed tight by
the bottle caps in her voice,
the easy way out,
he took the back door,
and got married in an alleyway.
She was his Queen and he was her
King, and so began their rain,
in the form of acid.
Slowly killing off
the vagrants of society, they were
powerful,
Drinking from the veins of the
deceased they were vampiric,
spreading disease in the air of
their aura, they were contagion.
She made him powerful,
she made him cool,
she made sure he would only
feel pleasure, and no more
pain, forevermore.
I would often wonder
who these people were,
if they were people at all.
The tales of The Streets always
lulled me to sleep.
Once I did
I would see the logos of our dreams
and be Cool, forever.