Choices

it's 8:15 pm. I'm walking to the end of the street. The bootlegger resides there. I need a cigarette to stale the air. She's down the street battling despair. I seek refuge in her eyes so fair. Dark brown like black; the air is chilled, relaxed. I'm walking back, cigarette in hand. My house is full with no helping hands. My glass is warm but who didn't touch. I saved the draft then clipped the roses thorns. The alley is dark; my door is locked. I turn around to catch a glimpse if I see her, I won't pretend. This life is torn, just too complex. I step inside and try to relax. Don't trust a whore it's a hellish trap.