This & That.

Not entirely happy with the very end of this.

This

This is the home of the spectres.

This is where they wander the streets, in

this darkness that’s yours; always always under

this peculiar shade of grey, never black. The greyest darkness. And

this is where they sleep. Always sleeping. Take a good look and recoil.

This chance will never come again, all because

this world too separate. Too far.

This world is theirs, too.

That

That other city that’s filled by you,

that never sees that grey or pain, is such

that it might keep itself to itself and so keep itself

that perfect shade of glass and marble. Rich in absence and something

that compels a smile at all times new, clean, shiny and

that specific colour. That green specific colour.

That’s your lot’s lot, really. That’s all

that’s there. Now leave.