The wet pavements of Bruges shone,
In the neon needle light,
As through the streets,
Tourists full of winter meanderings,
And Christmas stomping feet,
Fed their hearts and their stomachs,
With cheery nonsense,
And red-berried sentiment.
But my mind in darker streets,
Went walking then,
Laden with fear and anxiety,
With knotted thoughtful pain,
And visions of oblivious futures,
That gaped and yawned upon my path,
Or opened wide like filthy orifices,
To mouth me deep down,
Into a leaden dreary sleep.
(1/1/10)
