The Sentinel

The city is a graveyard of images.
Buried they lie under a sky
that is forgotten by the people of the metropolis.
Criss-cross run the wires overhead
like the lines scribbled on the hands of the other by her lover
in an age when innocence still made them smile.
And here lie the old tram tracks
weary and battered and senile.
Here and there wander about like hungry beggars,
lost little roads who have forgotten their paths.
The city has robbed them of their dignity and of their wrath.
They sob now with all the others, solemn and unheard
in the smoky light of the last long lamp-post;
The sentinel of all that has come to be
and of that which is yet to unfold.
It nods gravely and muses, the city is a graveyard of images
and all its stories will forever remain untold.

9:29 PM

15th September, 09

Sadness let me borrow your name

Sadness let me borrow your name,
for the day has been long
and the hours longer,
for the wild urge to freefall into oblivion
has only grown stronger.
Names have come and faded before my eyes,
and my age has grown tired of telling me lies.
I cannot remember why I smiled as a child,
or how it felt to be free and young and wild.
Now I just stand by the mirror
and pretend everything has remained the same.
I am losing my courage a little each day…
So, sadness let me borrow your name.

Sadness let me borrow your name,
for it is truly a gorgeous day today
and I know of no one who I can talk to about it.
The clouds, bovine and benign, stroll about
on a grassy sky about to sprout
a sun of the most amazingly gentle amber haze.
I have become muddled along the way.
There is a long list of people who I would like to blame,
but they seem all gone now,
and it all seems so far away.
Among the dried bones of a parched summer,
an old man cuts a sorry figure waiting for a cleansing rain.
So, in this lonesome sadness,
won’t you let me borrow your name.