I’d set its flawed trajectory
On shelves in dust and broken trust,
In New Town where I’d left the clues
And lived on loneliness and lust.
I’d bury all its sorrows deep,
Escape and wander through Kings Cross,
Through London’s raging, aching streets,
Through hotel rooms booked by the hour.
I’d fall again and jump the Strid,
Leave echo patterns on its shelves,
Take on the shadows it had made,
And mark regret upon its lid.
Within that air of many pasts,
Pathetic proofs that nothing lasts.