Terrifying façade,
long and tall, overpowering
but frail.
Ready to crumble and fall.

Snide wire intertwined,
exit wounds in the concrete flesh.
Each thorn stood to attention,
unwelcoming guards of the now unwanted.

Block after block
of relentless alleyways,
like a labyrinth of colossal gravestones.
The sky opens.

Water rattles bullet-like,
upon the once majestic city walls.
The cathedral moans its last hymn
as the steeple betrays itself.

The descent prevails.

Scratch that.

I am vacant as a whole.
Emptied and used up,
bits of me carved out
and scattered all around in meaningless disarray.
I feel like I'm grasping at the edges,
to hold it all together in fear that
it'll all
cave
in.

That I'll prove to be a black hole
and wreak nothing but havoc.

But isn't that what I'm already doing?
Holding the edges together while
blindly pulling in whatever feels like it
just might fill the void...

When all I really want is all that's been
scattered to be replaced.
I don't want to just fill
emptiness.
I want to be whole.

Waiting like a fool.
Making a wish on a star.
Wishing for what was.

The familiar door swings open at my touch,
Greeting me with the aromas I’ve come to love.
Surveying the room I find the old man in his corner,
Muttering under his breath about something in the paper.
His face creases to form an unpleasant look, one that's been there before.
The gruff hand reaches out to the liquid gold on his right, and he brings it to his thirst quenching Lips.
The lines fade, but only slightly.
I recede further into the cafe until an intruding fragrance invades my lungs,
Suffocating, I back up as the waitress blows by me,
And I see the trail of fumes chasing after her.
She shuttles over to the table with a young couple,
If they couldn't make it anymore obvious.
Their hands are laced together in a peculiar pattern,
And their eyes only see each others - typical.
Nervous laughter and smiles pass between them as a bottle would be passed about,
Red rushes to the cheeks when a compliment slips out on "accident."
I tear my eyes away, I can't handle young love today,
So I make my way to my table,
My old, coffee stained, uneven legged table in the corner.
From here I can see the business man sitting at the closest table to the door.
I know he's a business man not from his sharp suit and brief case,
but from the way he keeps checking his watch.
Checking it like he has someplace to be, someone to met, like the time can't possibly be right.
And before I can make another assumption of the man,
The store spits him out.
Leaving behind an empty chair, a paper unopened and steam fleeing from a cup.

Steam escapes the surface
Of infant mince pies.
It spirals upwards, dancing
Into the winter haze
Where headlights, opaquely visible,
Fight the fog.

The mist flurries atop the frozen pond,
Over brittle leaves, half caught.
The deer nuzzles in frosty thickets,
Searching the winter veil
For stray nut.

‘neath the tap my hands endure
The bitter cold of winter’s water;
But happily I return to my window,
And cast a gaze once more on winter Britain.
The fire leaves a smoky essence,
A homely smell.
December come.