We are savage and we are cruel
And we know well what we do.
The imprints of sycophants
Echoes in blood red rooms.
The certainty of colour
Washed white and hung too soon.
A memory of light,
A bloom of deja vu.
Remembrance forgotten
Rewritten and then renewed.

Still we know not what we do.

The past is a sombre portrait,
Watercolour hung askew.
Dust and skin belie the truth
Stroke sure yet misconstrued.
In the maelstrom of intent
Will is broken before it is bent.
A promise spoken, never meant.

Still we know not what we do.

If I always relived the same day.

                                  The only thing
that I'd never get fed up of seeing
                                                 is you.

I remember passion fondly,
sepia-toned snapshots
of vaguely familiar faces,
preposterous poses
grinning at memory's camera.
Such children we were,
bloated with self-importance
raring to be loosed
upon an unsuspecting world
     (they'll never know what hit'em).
Battered by time,
small success and major failures,
a one-sided smile
crawls up my face today
as I pray
for a fragment of that fire,
a torch
to light the rest of my days.

Neons red in rain drops
bleeding down the window
a prayer for the ones
deserving more than they got.
Knew one,
a little buttercup,
parchment pale skin
and the bluest eyes
never caught a break
like a pigeon
with a low hanging
wing
on the ground it trails
left to peck in the gutters
with all the others
but the others
can always fly away.