The City, the City

Pale grey overcast and fractions of clouds

whimper as you vomit on the steps of

Saint Paul's Cathedral.

Resign here,

don't move forward and

yet you still exhale:

How did I get here?

Here the harpies nest.

They scream like banshees into the night.

And you,

wailing on your knees

- trapped by the stars -

between heaven and earth,

you begin to pray away the city.

Modern apocalypse please, you

squirm, stop your towers of Babel from...

but nobody hears you.

Clutch the dreadful sand and stone,

wipe it clean from the floor

- and curse the trees that cease to be -

break the twigs and listen...

no, really listen...

you can just about hear the wind

- crack -

through the maze of high rises.