Heads roll, laughing.
Hair flies unbound.
Red splashing sticky spills.
The swinging door Shuts away the tavern light.
The sun was a guillotine, descending slowly, and inevitably.
Cold, dead air was an awakening.
The cobblestones were shark fins, circling their oblivious prey.
Six drunken steps, a tumble. Plunging earthward, to the grey stone sea.
Breaking on impact.
Curling fingers open, relinquishing glass.
The dark ruby wine dripping out of the clay brown bottle.
By Alana Kilby, 14