Another London Morning Fading to Circles Henry C Smith

Words
hanging like mirrors
over
trodden ground,
years
like rotting leaves
sifting the silt
of your star crossed
core.

A thousand sighs
in a dawn
ramsacked by silent knives,
fed by the gulls
of fear,
days beseiged
by grinning mouths,
licking tongues.

what a day
to die,
cold
hard
and wet
down in the sweat,
past the black lines
glistening,
lacking empathy
in spades,
amongst the hooded oddities
of people.

what a day
to live or love.

sometimes
i just can’t see
the brilliance
of thought
in this
opaque waste,
this
lifeless
fish eye torpor
fading to circles of stone.

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