cracked tarmac,

a pavement pocketed with decaying gum,

animal and human waste alike,

all greyed,

worn by the current of time and the

ever-burning steps,

the rush of vehicles against this street.

a testament to our survival,

and tolerance of our own filfth.

everyday i see more people lost,

truly, wandering aimlessly down the paths

past my front door,

eyes crazed in that drunken blur

only the worst highs can bring to a man.

i’m sorry, truly, and another pang of guilt

hits my privileged consciousness,

as i gaze from my grimy window;

the only wall between my little clean world,

and the madness of Holloway.

it’s true i have my own drug,

my own addiction with which i try to shake myself from.

thank god it is the plant,

not the rock.

i greatly doubt they all got here by well-informed choice,

a deliberate fall from sanctity to mania;

this world is not easy,

and this dammed city brings out the worst in some.

less chances, and a victim of one too many’s greed,

and here you are,

eyes wide, dreaming to a blackened light;

a heart and soul, already pained bruised beyond belief,

torn open the first,

and another of great potential for love is sent down,

the maze of perpetual yearning and itch.

sisyphus’ curse strikes again.

there’s some things you can’t ever touch,

or else it’ll forever be stuck to you,

a memory clinging under your skin,

always needing its reminder,

never content, walking under a spell,

a waking echo seeking a false heaven.

i must practise carefulness, and seek great compassion.

how can i offer any break from this?

just some loose change from my rather light pockets.

i’m sorry