The Writers' Circle

Weeping Kashmiri skies pour down on the greys of the street pavement,
Postmen clench mail that has already been sent.
Shapeless trees that hang loosely swish in the arctic winter winds during early evening hours.
Characters emerge from murky surroundings, adults and children alike,
Sniffed that can be, the perpetual smell of pike.
Stench of smoke piles the air like words fill empty books,
Wondering men give younger ladies dirty looks.
Storms assemble on gravestones and slap against familiar faces,
Eyes dampen on the sighting that beholds before them, for what the city chases.
Intimidating blocks of buildings congregate the landscape and paupers garland the ground,
As lost children are never found.
Cave like darkness is all that can be seen,
And petty cries of help from under aged girls for men that are so keen.
Streets that were once speckled with laughter are now the place of sorrow.
Flourishing flowers fashioned faces in the olden ages but now tears are on sale,
In every person there is another untold tale.
Winds throw leaves here and there,
Coating only the litter that wraps the city like a child's unnoticed care.
No one is ever sure which a friend is or which is a foe.
Wheels weave vociferously through the seasonal specs of snow,
Creating blossoming lanes that stretch from east to west.
Here, people embark upon a quest,
Yet all they gain is the soulful truth of life.

The worldly light of the day is ending,
As the approaching night's darkness finally arrives.
Husbands search weakly around for supper to feed their kids and their wives.
Bands of people scuttle towards their Celtic homes,
During nights yet on the pavement a lonely child still roams.
Stars flash in the eyes of hopefuls, stars that glisten in the sky,
As the people below cushion themselves on the streets, they are living a lie.
The moon beams down like bulbs light up rooms.
Street lights flicker in desperation.
The homeless drift from one place to another and as bellies rumble with hunger,
They cry themselves to sleep.
Nights pass on by whilst they lay beside their neighbour.
The night's hours are far too short for the working class,
As they awaken from their hypnotic trance and ready them for another day of hard labour.