Love has left these pitiless threads, these pillow-less
Discarded piles, slumped into corners, comatose
Cobbles with corrosive patterns and
Here, where dogs used to wander between
Butchered brick and wretched wood, lesser
Strays inhabit these corners
Bundles lost in chaos while Time drips past in
Parades of pity and disgust.
Spasmodically a splash of silver flicks carelessly through
Sickly chiaroscuro, spitting back contemptuous lamplight, slicing
Through its comedy and settling, unannounced on
Muggy braid, nestling amongst other unwilling eremites;
Part holocaust, part oblivious novocaine against the persistency of
Once, maybe, on virulent mornings like these, warmth
Bedded down and snuggled within;
Once, maybe, tender hands slowly teased plump fledgling tufts
Awake; aromas of fresh coffee and breakfast infested
Fibre and memory; in younger rooms.
In this ginnel nothing is slower than silence, nothing
Quicker than sleep, nothing more indistinguishable than
Heaven from Hell and nothing cheaper than the Ferryman.
No pennies for our eyes, we are simply pests inhabiting
Different worlds, carrying different plagues.