Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
My sinful earth these rebel powers array,
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end?
Then soul live thou upon thy servant’s loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more.
    So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
    And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

i don't know you,
you slip down a street,
peruse a café window
looking for something
to eat, the inner
stirrings of your soul
a mystery to me & it's
funny because with time
I could love you, but as
of now you are like
any other undiscovered
book sat on a shelf
collecting dust, i blink
& you're gone, my
favourite read lost in a
sea of bodies; millions
of stories bleeding down
streets that i will never
meet.

I called to you 
softly when I 
was young; my
voice bounced off 
the bricks of a 
suburban slum,
sauntered down 
side streets and 
stirred piles of 
leaves, then snagged 
in the branches till 
the wind tore it free 

to collapse at your 
window like a 
weary songbird
that had been 
singing for decades 
and finally, you heard.