8th Floor Office Blues Poem by Dwain Joseph

I stay murderer to my brothers

So my passion may be exorcised

on their pale skins, pale

as the phantom of hope

lingering under heavy skies.

We all wish once upon a memory,

blanketed by London's fog

my identity lays sodden

to drown in false levity.

Oh how I miss her

and that wicker lantern

that burnt my dreams to dust

longing for her acidic embrace,

intoxicated by solemnity.

Those clouds are gone now,

leaving satin tears

to stain my poor window.

Pity 'tis now 3'oclock

and the day has not yet died...