photo by Melissa Reid

photo by Melissa Reid

Come and fill your hollow spirit,
with your whiskey, port and wine,
feel your blood, an amber current,
flow more swift than time. 

Drunken waltzes flood the dance floor,
soft as silken pastel dreams,
motions being lost in motion,
tearing at the seams. 

White noise silence turns to slicing,
but directors call the cuts,
curtains fall with bleeding lungs, and
shake the sleeping dust.

Dancing makes the barman sour,
barring when the day and night
end, but slowly, dragging hours
through the ceaseless fight. 

Past cracking lips like desert ground
sweet nothings hiss, adulterate
the young white ears of innocence;
corruption cultivates. 

Crackling comforts soar and sweep from
glowing neon tubes of time;
in popping speakers resonate the
voices lost inside. 

Silence tumbles, light escapes, while
crows, they beckon through the morn,
cold with sorrow, damp with sin ā€“ our
spirits on the floor.

Jess Smith, University of Edinburgh. She says,  "Iā€™m Jess Smith, an American Edinburgh-based poet and casual photographer. I grew up in Tokyo and Geneva, occasionally moving back to the US in between, and picked up a few languages along the way. I love writing, graphic novels, and RPGs, and aspire to work in the video game industry some day."