Bridge On Rome

Where I grew I felt a cert that with hair so "ging-eh" Touch would be revulsion. So at pitch black 1 when they'd hassled me "You're late" and the lift was blown off for bad behaviour. The quick footsteps grabs, snares, gropes, sniffs and stalks- I walked alongside secure. Would they dare touch a ging? Not even in the narrow scraps or runs did I choose the safe option. Poison of the tongues that acidly tortured my days, fell my safety to the night. ...and yet I thought I was a bad runner too, but sufficient it seems. So when there's a void, perhaps it is your glaring eyes to blame, as it was your lips who taught the voices that shed the light away from the bridges of the estates. ...and spent my luck too early