tale to tale

A sweltering night in busy streets,
Dictated by a day setting too late.
With hard sun through heavy smog,
It rains down a sauna of songs.
My days of passion turn to fatigue,
Slow-dreary plays acted in weariness
And a fantasy of ecstasy
Is suddenly shrouded in come-downs.

So I set about down Whitechapel Road
With the heat holding me back.
And I walk these hot tiles
Flanked by sour faced articles.
The area is a cultrual collaboration,
A sheer celebration of everything together.
But the aging land shows hopeless homes,
And parliamentary projects rusting.
But it’s better now, she says
Through an open smile,
It’s much better now.

For 20 years the sourness softened
Like a hard heart for love.
Fires in the streets turned a home to hell,
With angry youths demanding their change,
But it’s better now, she says,
As I see the irony,
Is it better now?
When the angry youth still hold fallen names in their mouths,
Under threat by their own shadows,
To a higher state, it’s simply their own,
But they never asked to be followed.

But she has warm eyes,
As I wipe the sweat from my brow,
And the change she sees warrants her words.
Streets melt from above and not below,
And shadows will use their voice with pride.
Things are better now, she says,
As she turns to the butcher,
Things are better now.