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Red Room

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