A holy place where shadows like a swarm of locusts,
who bares the street perplexity straight to the bones.
The city’s silent and had lost a bull’s-eye focus
as drones – the rights to take a queen behind her throne.

Its keys are hung as time in charts on railway stations.
While money burns a hole – the pockets full of luck.
The morning only knows the depth of devastation
and if the fortune’s bang was really for the buck.

A congregative place is where a question needles
with promises to numb while peace goes through an eye.
The shiver doesn’t fit while winds use nerves to fiddle.
It’s not in vogue for men – to shiver as to lie.

19 November 2009