In this haunting city where the summer is humid and also sticky,
the sun blisters the naked skin
As silver Beads of sweat trickle
Like sweet gelato drizzling in the blazing heat.

There is poetry in the streets
Of graffiti, mellow lights and yellowed walls.
Of cobblestones and of riches
Dazzling every inch of this old city.

The air is laden with soulful music
Of long, lost love
Of passion
And of words rolling melodically and melancholically in modern Latin.

The souls gone by
Of artists, slaves and martyrs
Wander eternally in this ancient city.

They whisper softly in the evening wind
Knowing every tourist and every Roman,
Enchanting gently to their soulful being.

So with longing I think of Rome
As i feel the whispers in the evening wind.
Hypnotised, spellbound; knowing that somehow -
i  am rome.

Amid the cloudless blue sky
And the last of the green grass
A wrinkled tree trunk lies lone and bold.

It lived through a many a
Sunrise and a sunset.
Grew green leaves and dropped its yellowed leaves
Bloomed flowers, bore fruit
Witnessed births, witnessed deaths
Was a shelter, Was a home.

This wrinkled tree trunk lies no more
For the men axed it rot
Pulled it from the root.

There will be no more trees in this land of mine
But a concrete landscape; an eyesore to all.

Some thoughts flow melodically
like one eloquently orchestrated masterpiece
Or a well-woven tapestry.
Other thoughts erratic and staccato.
Pauses.
Discordant.
Confusing.
A cacaphony of noises.

Some thoughts are soft and comforting
Like floating clouds of pink, golden sunsets
Over calm, and glistening waters.
Other thoughts are as sharp as pointed ice.
Cutting.
Jarring.
Deceptive.
Malice spoken from evil tongues.

Streams of thoughts can be elusive.
They run
They jump
They swirl in a whirlpool
Unable to steady.
They ​branch
From one thought to another
Shifting like quicksand
Melting into nothing
Forgotten.

Other thoughts can seem iridescent
Changing hue by the light's movement.
Some sparkle, some are bright,
others a dull, faded colour
Turning blank as the light morphs into darkness.
A train of thought now stopped to a halt.
With its own mind
With its own heartbeat.

Words - they flow and they ebb,
they reverberate eternally in this brain chamber of mine.

They echo, they roll, they slide, they rhyme and most of the  time they're nonsensical like these lines.

They're twisted and convoluted,
Ominous and auspicious.
Silly and simple.
Rhythmic and staccato.
They certainly have a life of their own.

One moment they're infused with scents of vanilla ,
The next moment it's dettol mixed with ***** of a gorilla. 

Sometimes they'll roll sweetly like cinnamon and baked apple pies.
Other times they'll dangle daintly like merrigolds and ponsiettas.

Then there are moments when they will leave me awake with the ultimate conundrum like am I charmed or beguiled?

What can I say?
A hodgepodge of words praying to be thought of; unforgot.
They sing me to sleep  like a sweetly sung lullaby .

Dare I pine, for a time gone by
Of ferns, trees and bees?
Of poems and songs my homeland boasts
I've only really read and heard.

Dare I wonder, the young and old
Burnt out and deep in debt.
Busy, lone and disgruntled
What future can one hold?

Dare I live, an Orwellian dream
the powerful blind and deaf.
Famished for votes and riches
Callous of others' pain.

Dare I remember an island,
Once proud of its own sweet name.
Unafraid, undivided, unyielding
Dying for its beloved land.

Dare I dream for a country whole
Of people told their truth.
Of people  freed from self-made cages
Of people healthy and content.

Dare I dream or be pinched awoke
before it is too late?
To sing for this sinking land,
To rediscover its singing soul.

I dream of Paris
Drunk in colours of Pink,
And warm, soft hues
Of gold and blue.

The leaves, they fall.
They waltz and dance
among feathers white,
In a wind, their guide.

Then a pitter, then a patter
Then a lightning trembling Paris' every café.
The leaves, the feathers -
They dance no more
But float in waters that they have always known.

Morning comes as night is forgot -
And crooners croon
And painters paint.
And the glamour of the Tour Eiffel is captured through.

As cafés brew
And Tourists walk
Over stories told,
Over stories untold
And the struggles of the night before
makes todays skies so clear and oh so blue.

We boast we love our land
our people, our economy.
And, without any remorse

We ****** the living
and say atrocious words
like they should have stayed in their homeland
and they deserved to drown.

No apology, no fallen tear.

We boast we love our freedom
we long to go out
some do go out
even though they should not go out.

And then, we let the hunters hunt
To shoot the fragile, winged creatures
To crush their wingless dreams
To sing no more
For the game of a moment
For the pride of a moment.

No apology, no fallen tear.

We say we love our nature
Yet we **** the land that we have
To fields of concrete

And greed leads to death
As our lives become void
As long as money makers get richer.
And then we forget.

No apology, no fallen tear.

Yet,

Somewhere deep inside,
a soul resides.
A heart which dreams and feels
which is compassionate and empathic.

And if we stop for a moment
To let all sink in,
and we realise that
our hurts and pains are making us all blind -
We want to apologise, to cry and to forgive.