The red room closes in
And forces me out into
The silent din
Of the freezing street.
The quiet overwhelms me and
My cold ears are deafened
By the watchful, staring stars.
The snow-moussed cars
Are still, and the sliver of silver
Who calls herself a moon,
That watchful mother, that scornful other
Parent who knows me oh, so well,
Simply stares down at her shivering daughter.
I look down
At the twinkling town
Where I was born, where I grew up
And branched out, blossomed and threw up
Occasionally, after a good night out
With the girls, in the Camelot,
Sir Kissalot being renamed Sir Missalot
As he stood me up for the twentieth time.
Olde English cider geared us up, providing the fire
For our hedonistic souls and the ache for our heads
In the morning.
I live on an island above the streets,
Always longing, yearning for the past,
Those years which raced away too fast.
Watching the present, but seeing the sweet
Youthful scenes, the ambitious dreams
Which came and went.
My heart lies deep in the centre of this night-time town,
Where the snow has turned to muddy brown
And people can walk and text without falling.
I can hear the drunken revellers calling
Out to each other, quarrelling
Over the last taxi, the last dance, the last kiss.
My thoughts fly swiftly over the roofs,
The sparkling, icy fields
And softly settle once more above the place which
Holds me captive.
They hover there, hoping to heal
The desire in my restless soul.
My silver cord is stretched, my furtive
Search is fruitless, the past has gone
Forever
