The grounds of Westminster

Noble and valiant names committed to stone,

Erased by the footfalls of the faithful,

Their ordered deaths, now honour the throne,

Of a country still wantonly wasteful.

His vicious vices

Waiting, wanting, wanted,

Satan sits, sat in satin,

Inviting in vile visceral sin,

Hating hatred hated,

Since future's past, and times' begin,

His vicious vices will ne'er be sated.

Kensington girls can't sing

Kensington girls can't sing,

Delicate flowers that cut the crowd,

They stand timeless, tall and prim,

Heirs resting on graces, waiting silent and proud,

For trains, draped in fine things,

And a love that they are allowed,

To whom they can speak with, via lightly shadowed eyes,

A lover who sees them, and only them, 

For their worth, and not their prize,

Yet, this flora wears district distain like never before,

As sharp suitors present brief cases to the lowly platform floor,

With tired animosity in bloom, cloaked behind their guise,

The heart pleats, 

Soft velvet stares tailored to pain and sting, 

Tempt lesser gentlemen to sin, 

Or for once, to finally feel something.

Spring in the city

Shine your shoes by the road,

It's spring in the city!
United space chasers,
Picnic without privacy, 
The Royal Parks are your garden, 
Photogenic, with nowhere to Hyde,
From the reclined surfing masses,
Who commonly flood in,
Happy debris, floating upon sunlight's tide.

Dawn in North London

Dawn in North London,

Beams moonlit to the station,

North star guiding,

Drudgery abiding,

Her light aches and rests, 

With transient thoughts residing,

Fighting the dull monotony of early life,

 And an anticipated future strife, 

Luminescent and ever-present,

Always reminding,

Forever binding.

Golden, skyward blue

I open my door as morning sun floods in,

Streams of purity, golden upon my face,

Yellow bright illuminating skyward blue, white,

Unseen underground, trains scream their course,

Giving chase to dreams, and days spent in good faith,

Ambitions on hold, until our freest night,

Or when we are once again drenched in light.

Two guns crossed

Two guns crossed, in hate and haste, 

Ring out untrue words, spoken at pace,

Time locked, and smoking, barrelled verbs strike their mark,

Whilst sadness and tears the target,

Denote loss, 

In our language of waste,

Death is no catalyst, but the consequence of a spark.

Blue flashes silver

Planes overhead fly,

Like minnows in the pond,

Blue flashes silver,

As they pass by,

Yet, as you get closer, 

And catch them in the net of your eye,

You see they are minnows no more,

But whales of the sky.