#2

The dreamers weave

through lonely streets

calling a name they dare not speak

too loud or too quietly.

 

The gutters clog and splutter,

rancid smells of life’s decay

tells them to go home

it’s too late.

 

They march on like soldiers

hoping to find the light

the way.

 

Some of them turn back and admit defeat

accepting a rundown neighbourhood

with broken windows

just like their dreams.

 

Is this all

that there is,

of human durability?

 

I suppose we all accept our own version of

a two-bed terrace one day.

After all,

who wants a mansion

when there are only ghosts

to haunt the hallways?

Advertisements

Come home

There is a coffee stain on the windowsill

where someone has waited anxiously

for someone else to come home.

The streets are quiet and haunted,

no whispers of life left:

most of them sleep with murmurs

and it’s in this darkness, panic can grow.

 

Staring at the call log and unread messages,

begging and praying-

Please. Please come home.

It is unfair to torture the soul so.

Because deep down, it knows,

like the bitter taste of that coffee,

they are never coming home.