Lacon House

Thoughts of getting older
Wane as the day grows colder
The clouds tattered shreds
Heart like lead,
Gaze drifts slowly from
Evening ash, the descended
Urban wraiths of shadow
To the sprawl that writhes
In the atrium of my mind.

If heaven calls;
I'm going too.
Can't stay here

Cries slice air
Where the buses rumble past.
I search for what I understand
Hold my hand. I stand
Amongst the dark and hostile eyes.

Democracy? Hypocrisy
I cry. I try
To catch my failing mind
Revive my ailing blind and
Injured mild spirit

My own belief
Is lost in grief,
Yet every starling, each green leaf

Of London holds a golden glory
And the story holds
That I am saved