Many moon-less nights festering,
tucked with the glass and cloth drawn shut.
In confinement a vacuum
against the all-consuming hollow of modern.
Oh how we scramble,
"too busy" to catch me a glimpse
so we'll leave it to chance on the Underground circuit.
Carts of death, on which we're wheeled
like lambs to the end of the line.
If our spine uncurls and blessings conveyed
fall to bitter silence, let these words
embellish our story.
For fury may burn holes in the gut,
but crumpled parchment and black X'ed out pictures at the eyes
long transcend the ideologue.
That white speckled hue, the hum of neon boards
worn but audible. Somewhere between the dim
of Old Street and Whitechaple,
the sound of lonely echoed in departed steps.
I plead forgiveness,
if not claw at the thread that knots a stomach tight
and loop it like a noose instead.
There are no combinations, no literacy codes to re-write history
when actions speak in a universal slur.
I'll do it over, scratching memories from the surface
of old Polaroid photos,
finger balanced like the needle on a buckled vinyl
poised to screech one last note.
So come now, let us meet
on shores our lips spoke the promises of;
let us not shallow graves
where not a single petal bloom in our name,
our egos are too big to return to the dirt.