My back was towards you on Penny Farthing Lane
But you made the buildings fall away
Replaced by jungles and woods that teemed with chattering life
Washed beneath a napalm rain
And you were the mockingbird, cawing
My ears were secure in podcasted hold as I crossed over Queen Street
But your siren song still drowned out the loud-roaring sea
As we sailed on enthralled in the pursuit of some ardent glory
Unaware of the oblivion rising from the wine-coloured beneath
And you are the prophetess, preaching
My eyes were down as I wandered along Pembroke Street
But you clanked the storybook shut
And opened instead the doors of a gothic manor teeming with chandelier lit balls
As sighs go ignored in the encompassing gardens
And you will be the ghost, haunting
Unless we listen, we’ll all be ghosts.
Lamenting.
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