In Liverpool. 1993.

In Liverpool I suffered a little, just a touch.

A touch of an old friend – deep meaning forgotten.

The doubtful transition from spirit path, tripped over – hit a stone – for a day ‘wanderer weary’ – looking for a home.

The empty sighing windows of the run down street.

The promise of a new life for travel weary feet.

The greyness (that doesn’t exist) that can invade your soul,

This isolated freedom began to take its toll.

The coupling of friends and lovers linking all around.

The stepping considerate

Aware of every sound.

The awareness of move, moving on

It simply isn’t right

And memories of better places

That haunt me through the night.

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