White spot upon a dark wall through crusty

Eyes I spy your orb

Half sleeping, half awake reality

Screams back in my face you are

Here! You are here! Lest I

Forget the broken pavements

Crooked walls the sarcastic grins

And cheap remarks the cesspool this

City where I start each morning thinking

How and why white spot you become

A square

As I pull back the curtains and the morning

Floods in the hum of the lawnmower

Banging of doors and mingling of young

Voices beyond the pruned trees I am not

Tricked by this pantomime of wickedness masquerading

As innocence common scoundrels posing as gentry

Wenches that go by titles this

Thuggish oasis clutters

My mind until the white spot I am blind

As to my whereabouts and dumb

To my fate

The banging of doors stirs

Me once more with the humming and tweeting

From the garden of doom I survey

The room and yes I am

Here denying my knowledge I lie

In the dark trying to prolong

The illusion of a place very far

From here but no

White spot will grow into

A square where light hits the floor the wall and the door

And then I will know that I am

Not there but still

Here the Peaks and the troughs the cracks

In the floor and banging of doors the vulgar

Displays and imbecilic hoards like

Sheep on the run

The cesspool is thriving from behind

A single glass pane I watch yes

I am here but I am

Not there.

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