The chill of the winter drills holes in his toes,
Frost crystals crack beneath his feet.
He lives in a city where anything goes,
No one knows who he is on these streets.
Ice grips the awns by the first breath of dawn,
In shop doorways tramps battle the cold.
In themselves so withdrawn, tired eyes so forlorn,
Their stories ne’er heard now untold.
The filth of the footways lit orange by street lights,
The sky looms starless and black.
Knife fights on week nights but memory in the mid night,
These quiet hours belong to the insomniac.
A heartsick romantic transfixed by the city,
Yet blind to its borders of green.
Treads a well-trodden path with a laugh of self-pity,
While She sleeps he is alive in between.
‘Neath the dreaming spires of this monarch of shires,
Wired eyes drift skyward in awe.
A life lived in a city he reviles and admires,
A city he both hates and adores.
By Chris circa 2008