Sunday, 21 October 2012

Exile.



City full of lost things,
the gutter full of stars,.
nothing thrown away,
imagination ploughed,
draws magnets on wild winds,
beyond every headline,
and mornings spin,
trains take people
on journeys of discovery,
some will never see.

All forms here,
all divisions,
stillness lingers,
somewhere out of reach,
old is the echoe,
a prism with no ending,
used people, some shut out,
forever,
between the dark places
and the streets paved with pain.

Lovers reach out,
exhale,
float on dreams,
in a city built,
on a thousand intoxicated breaths,
the air seems to run faster,
here in the heart of a city,
running on filters of memory and survival.
The evening sleeps with its eyes open,
gilded mirrors showing us the long distance home.


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