PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Marcella is a girl so mocked, she enjoys it.

I see her in the window of a high-rise in London,

Where by day, the sun is sulfur yellow, 

Clings to skin and streaming eyes, 

And by night, heads are down and stars shine black 

And dull as a November London road.

Marcella, you are the only moon I see here, 

Your face and hair glowing like a china doll in a wedding veil, 

The white against shadowed streets,

The headlights and streetlamps glare at hooded city stalkers,

Never looking up at people like you, the pure light, La Luna,

Marcella, your eyes seem to speak truths of this city

That airwaves and black print cannot:

Red, yes, that's the colour of a blunt blockade, 

The beefy bloke who bars us from going further, 

Red is the pestilence of London, smiling and shooting streamers in the streets,

All the while crushing and compressing until we're cold.

Marcella, sometimes I wish I could coax you down from your nest,

Show you the steel concrete chaos that your sight has survived.

It's intimate here, I'll give you that, 

But the stars remain anxious for awe-struck eyes,

Lights can be dazzling, claustrophobic and pressuring,

But stars wait forever for our smiles.

Funny-looking Marcella, but in a nature-lover's way,

This maze: Where each twist and turn is a park or a book or a new song,

Where each needle of fern is a final notice or a corporate climber,

You can follow me. Take my hand. 

Marcella, take my ticket. Board a train and run. 

Pretty birds like you don't belong in the city,

Where vultures of all natures watch hungrily for prey. 

Just promise to find the right flock, and fly.