Maybe it was the nostalgia of the fog;
it couldn’t really have been anything else.
But the way the mist hung around the burning lamppost
through my nicotine stained window
made me think of kid-like nights sitting in the park
drinking cider on the swings.
I’m not really sure any more,
what all these signs and symbols mean,
the days are all sewn together in a huge tapestry of memories,
to look it over and analyse its meaning is confusing.
This morning the sun had been blotted out by the clouds
but you could still see its silhouette,
like a clouded eye full of disease,
trying to warm the earth through the smog –
smoggy old London town.
I’m slowly being covered in tattoos,
hiding old scars I want to forget maybe,
covering up bad memories with artwork
is an effective escape from the world.
But I’m holding on to the comfort of the moon now
because I’m nocturnal
waiting to be snagged by an owl.