Cold Thief
The cold blast in the violet hour of the day came rushing around the corner like a thief on the run. O City, you sweat still, even with the whisper of autumn coming. Your reflections undesirable in every store window, you're unable to sell your image to every high society bitch. Slap and take the money. Run like the wind, with your crisp autumn amber hair flowing all the way down to the harbour, to jump in the water to hide. Hold your breath for long enough, you can become amphibious and know what the shells know. But your a thief. A sinner. No secrets of the sea-angels get told to you. You get banished to the land. You're now caught.