Waves, they crash and fall,
but also sway and bob.
That rhythm burned me,
deep and thorough.
I feel it on the bus
rolling along, all stop and go,
and I ache and yearn
for the sea spray that I can smell,
though it is not there.

You could have been mine.
You could have been all ours,
we Children of the Dark.
But the Angles came
imposing their own as supreme,
though so tainted by French.

But like our myths you stand strong
in a way.
Few speak you, know you,
but you are you.
Not pure for none are,
but you are you,
just like our tales of old
which you sang so high.
The Angles came, but you remain.

There’s a life to language,
mingling, meeting.
Words all flow
fumbling or fluently.
Structure collides and grows,
changing, combining.
Where many see disrepair
or even death
I see life.

The walls have faces,
so our minds say.
That’s all it is,
a trick of the mind.
Right?

But what if the streets have souls
quite like us?
What if there are faces,
real faces
unlike we thought.
Right.

She is the mother of us all,
were she not grown.
Her son but a brother, a brat,
the world not moved
for her words fell on no one.

She fought and fussed,
wasting away in sociality,
and now she is trapped.
Aware and complacent,
she no longer burns.

She lives in her books,
seeking fiction where there is truth.
“I’ll make it mine!” she cries,
seeking friendship in lie.
To be renowned, respected, revered
is her wish.
No longer depreciated, despised, detested.

“I’ll help you all!” she cries,
wanting to force what she cannot.
If only she’d stop and think,
maybe then she’d earn it.
Their trust.

Watch him creep about,
that Prince of Pleasure.
He sets out fantasies,
digging in deeply.
Nagging thoughts,
aches and pains,
flash of want that feels like need.
Only lions can shake him off.