Ginge Reads

Photo by Eugenia Maximova on Unsplash Famed is her beauty but what good Is beauty when trapped in a mirror? The paint on her lips as red as blood, She draws nearer. She touches finger to rose-dusted cheek and grazes porcelain skin, In finest tones she can speak But no beauty within. A clamp around her lashes On her lids unnatural hues And on her pulse points there’s lashings Of Chanel, overused. Love is the enemy of a sculpted face Its touch simply too strong For a brittle mind to embrace For too long. So she sits and stares… The fanatical fairest of them all With hourglass heart and eyes of pearl. The mirror mirror on the wall A cold replication of a vainglorious girl. 

It was the perfect spot, really. Under the bridge between the two stations with the little Tesco express tucked into the side. The hustle and bustle of the city couldn’t help but pass by him on the daily, while the heavy redbrick that he leant against kept enough wind off his back. Of course, there was no escaping the chill of a concrete floor, but he’d been out here that long that the numbing sensation to his rear was more of a familiar friend.  Photo by Cory Woodward via Unsplash Armed with a week-old paper cup from Costa, he slowly emerged from his ragged sleeping bag as the arrival of the first train signalled 6:30am. A stranger had given him his makeshift duvet on a particularly bitter day back in November when the rain fell sideways through the bridge. Probably just an old bit of camping equipment that had been sat in the garage for the past 2 years next to the forgotten gold clubs and mouse-nibbled jump cables. Tracksuit hood pulled up over his head, he crossed his l