Sitting in the corner, back to the wall,
the observer becomes the pen, and feels no more;
skin is flayed; here the silent screams can be ignored;
we are all homeless here, shut out into the cold.

We are left to walk the back streets,
memory so icy cold, frozen;
these back streets are cracked and broken,
lined by deserted and crumbling buildings,
all haunted by the ghost of time passed

In this age of surface and broken pavements,
each moment a fleeting side show
caught in perception,

held by memory,
I sit in this bony apartment,

searching through these archives,
what seemed certain then, now is seen for what it was,

an illusion.
How easy it is to see
only what you want to see;
how easy it is not to hear the cries of the innocent,
the homeless
who must find deserted back streets
so they can sleep.