The old vacuous building
parasols the weak sun;
nothing enters here.

Nothing but rainwater
sleeping in puddles.
Cigarette ends, wet cardboard,
with only whitewashed walls
showing light,
showing grime.

Grey in the cracks, the mortar,
tainting, turning to off-white,
the pollution of the city
staining the bridal gown.

How far is the bridge,
from my mug of tea?

How far are people talking
above The Grateful Dead?

The old vacuous building
barricades the strong wind;
and I can’t leave here.

I haven’t seen sunlight
in over a month.
Nicotine gum, apathetic tug
in my matter
showing then,
showing now.

Scribbled in notes, I sought her.
Failing, I turn to lost sight,
the pollution of the city
turning the pages down.

How long will it take,
upon bended knee?

How hard is it to balance,
these troubles in my head?

The old vacuous building
parasols the weak sun;
I’m scared I’ll never leave.