Her eyes are in the skies
of the town I grew to despise
The appetite of the mind, seems sublime
but over time...
it all faded, and so the mills stopped turning and like so many machines in the lace houses I too became a sedentary one
The gentle hum of railway hydrogen bombs bicker over sounds of birds in the morning beams of a British summer morn
but along the tarry scarred roads of every little town lay a thousand lonely suicides aided in deeds of governmental scorn
and the requisite notions of sanity are held only to the regards of glossy magazines stacked high in a disappointed dazed newsstands and corner shops
where young kids once stole *******, and snacks, and milk
where lonely old men buy scratchcards and lottery tickets
where the mothers of the young hide their bruised faces in soup can solipsisms
and where the working migrants use ticker-tape guns to price the worthless and mourn their homeland
I saw you, walking lonely as a cloud
William Wordsworth of the wonderful beard
and I saw them laugh and point and deride
I saw you too, in vagabond virility
stalking the girls in summer dresses
down on bended knee, at the bus stop in the heat
I remember the old car, burned out shell
under the bridge near the shops
that I passed before school
who was it too, that I recall
stood by the wall
with eyes to sky, and in some cosmic free fall
and you, who read Proust by the canal
listening to birds twitter
and the gentle wash of ducks paddling nearby
I am all your faces, divisible by none
when the exasperated winds of some folly of the season
comes rushing through the alley by a brick house
and in some provincial moment in time
I believe we are the same
I see you as myself in simultaneous existence
but soon we leave, and in the proverbial ether
my soul will forever be intertwined