London Welcomes Me Home

A Tortured Poet’s Regret — No5

Photo by Angel Balashev on Unsplash

a poet knows the way back to the beginning
even if she thinks herself lost in the woods —
and, oh, the wolves may think they’ve found her
except to howl for another moonless night.

london is a foggy mistress,
misty in its happenstances of being —
a grey lady of ghosts becoming,
an evening tide of sorrow with a crown.

the sights and sounds all blur together —
as does any city of renown —
but a piece of her has called it home
even as she knows it’s always been a ruse.

to be or not to be,
that has always been the question —
and her home has always been this place
caught between times ethereal and unreal in doses.

princes and kings have called this place
their legendary haunt to be sure —
but can we even claim it’s camelot,
a glimpse away from avalon so true?

shakespeare lived and died here,
making his name on these very streets,
and that legacy…