Here's a poem that I wrote about London and the impressions it had on me. It seems dark, but it really isn't. its more just my realistic interpretation with a touch of creative imagination added in.
The grains of history stain these
charcoal-colored bricks,
blacken palms as
this city’s grit grinds between grimy fingertips,
crust falling in the wrinkles of skin.
This is (soak it in)
junkyard-paradise.
Survey the landscape.
Find it breathing.
Silent squalls of the employed move like
brush-strokes swept across a canvas.
More men than Whitman could mention
singing their song in this city,
whispering, shouting,
huddled in dark corners, running in broad daylight.
Alleys lead to open field
parks painted with pavement,
circuses without tents,
and the dead look on from the Squares.
Nelson stares from atop his thin pillar.
Congestion, constriction
no room to breathe.
Costa coffee caffeinate,
Hyperventilate home on a
Packed tube speeding silently through a chute
the lights, though they flicker,
will always guide you home.
Yet each moment is a present.
Wrap them in a bari blanket bundle
while making your bed,
while the trains clank-clank by,
carrying the city sounds back home.
And,
upon settling,
as you sit and wonder at this Monet-painted “Dusk”,
the impressions like colored bruises in the sky
beaten into landscape by the city smog
you will ask yourself,
as you step onto the platform tomorrow
and the next day
and the next day
and the next day
Each time you will ask yourself
Will I ride this train again?
until you realize
your will has already left the station.
