Glaschu

I grow tired of memory.

Mason stones and washed-out walls,

piles upon piles of abandoned cement

a certain dreariness, swallowing the air

a constant exhalation of misery,

of summers drenched in rain.

It echoed home,

an aspect of something meant to be

-alas, never given, never known-

as if fate had cut a thread to forge a path

instead of the usual noose it tempted me with.

In it an unusual warmth, 

a promise,

this wretched speck of possibility

feeding the parasite of hope.

My city.

I don't know where it is,

I am reminded of it in the crevices of our poverty,

I am reminded of its voices in the murmur of our boredom

-and in the shrieking fury that runs through our streets-

but it is not my city.

My city lays elsewhere,

in the hearts of friends whose faces are beginning to disappear,

in the songs I never did get to sing,

in the clacking of bottles and accents,

in them,

in the soft whisper of relentless winds.

In my dreams, the Clyde bleaches my bones

and I am no longer me,

just a pebble in the grand scheme of nothing.