A line can be drawn,
Of best fit, closest conformity,
Tracing both forwards and back
To when you were younger,
Your smile more bright, your
Eyes open wide to a
World all your own.

To see your features weep and sigh
Beneath the weight of passing time
Is naught but devastation.
I invest ungodly hours in
Charting your decline; I
Both wallow in despair and
Cling to hopes of latter-day grandeur.

I dare not look beneath the surface,
Or cast mine eye to past events,
Lest I see further evidence of
Decay and regress.
I fear I could not survive it.
I fear you would be lost,
To me, to this world which
You once so vividly called your own.

Glass is everywhere.
The empty road; between shrubs
And upturned wheelie bins.
It's in your hair, like dust
That sparkles slightly amidst the auburn highlights
And the blood from a **** above your
Left ear.

You can't hear so well,
All is ringing, squealing, high
And resonant above the sirens
And screams, the shop-keepers
Cursing the Gods, the
Church bells from another world
Calling out for dawn.

Oh! Take us away.
From these rivers of black,
These haggard drapes of
Bright lights and broken
Panes. This carpet
Made from discarded electrical goods,
Shoe boxes, wine bottles, and
Ash.

Who are they to do this?
To lay claim to all we have,
To lay waste to that
Which came before?
No fury from foreign lands, nor
Raging strife by nature's hands,
Has ever done what has been done.

The rain doesn't come;
Our summer is finally here,
And the skies are clear.
No clouds in sight, save for
Rolling colossi of acrid smoke. Flames
Pointing accusing fingers at an uncaring sky,
As England burns.

Herein lies a plan for a quiet life,
Of restrained passion and stolen smiles,
Drenched in moments of still solitude;
Plentiful contemplation,
Abject contentedness.
I do not promise happiness, nor
Do I profess that such a thing can be granted
With nary a twitch towards
Narcotic impulse or deluded blessing.
I do, however, guarantee a life
Well lived, and a handful of
Fragile years on this bitter, dusty Earth
Resplendent, shining,
If you allow the light of the world
Into yourself and become free,
To be who you truly are.

I put up with a lot, I confess;
I weather your obscure temperament,
Play host to ill humour.
I contend with mild distress and
Acclimatise to vagrant glance and
Occasional digression.
But I hate how this turned out,
I hate that he's a fool, a
Common antidote to your exotic
Poisons.
That he bears no ill will, that he
Treats me as nothing more than
A footnote in your powdery tome.
And I hate how he is right to do so.

Meet me at the verge, the place where
Caledonian Road meets the river and the
Reckless thugs of Camden dare not travel,
Lest they find themselves back home, alone once more.

Meet me at midnight, before the
Gates break loose and spill the stragglers to the street,
And just after the last bus leaves the station,
And the tube stops, silent, dead.

Meet me for reasons unknown, for
Sake of impulse, of joy, of freedom,
To cast away what memory you might have
Of days less full and rich as this.

Meet me dressed in black and grey,
All the better for the night to swallow you whole,
Take you within, deep, as a lover to another,
Or a shipwreck lost within the sea.

Meet me with apathy and disdain,
With carefree abandon and slight
Mistrust, for you are more wary than I
And have seen darker evenings.

Meet me then and take my hand,
Through woollen gloves and shivering, and
Stare at me through condensed breath, as we
Share a smile and walk lightly away.

My phone has been hacked,
I feel gladdened to know, that
Someone's interested,
In what paltry things I say,
To my mother.