Her Unreal Home Poem by Matt Pocock

She found herself awake, abreast
Of street, some new-found God had blessed
Her with some new-found spirit: Anger.
Her phone vibrates, her 'mother' rang her.
She throws as far as eye can grasp
Beneath the wheels of moving cars
Until the final ring goes out
In this dusky world of streetland shouts.
She huddles in the alley mouth,
Until the wind starts blowing south.
Extinguishes the cigarette
And gets up from her lowly rest.
With steps that shake her very core
She finds within some golden ore
To tap; To make some jewellery
With which to fund her treachery.
Oh, is this good? Is this the way?
Her eyes can't see the light of day
They're blinded by the tears of love
Parental lies have caked with mud.
Her clothes, once in the trend, are torn
As though she had been now new-born
Reflecting that unfateful night
Let's set the scene, pavement, streetlights
A child that's wrapped in rags is found
That'd hid beneath the bush. The ground
Is bathed with children's tears.
Th'effect of new mum's fears.
The bitch: She left without regret
Corrupted seed, unflattered eggs
Her nuptials could have possessed
Any man, it's your best guess.
Misfortune falls, I now digress.