Cricklewood

In the darkened allies of these forgotten streets,
where some of the boys have no name,
and they're with no trouble lead,
on promises of lavishness, or hope.
Some of them even wanting the follow,
down the dim allies, in this gone town.

Heels tick softly as he approaches,
kind breeze flows through the trees,
through the branches, into their bones.
And he speaks inaudibly to them,
and they nod fretfully.
Their shoes clack together, uncertainly.

The other gets irritable,
and he'll get going asking about where and when.
However he'd assured:
"Be peaceful, dear"
So they carry onwards, through the night,
where the evening holds mystery,
for the other boy.
While strange infatuation permeates the other.

Down another ally, its too apprehensive now,
and the other begins to shout.
Complaining of exaggeration, lack of obedience,
lack of – Control.
He doesn't control, but it's what he needs.
Grabbing, jostling, and then bruises on skin and bone.
Within the stinking apparent block,
where the less obedient ones stay.

In the darkened allies of these forgotten streets,
another boy with no name will forever have no name,
because he'd been so very easily taken,
all he wanted was hope.
Why would any want to follow?
Down the dim allies, in this gone town.