Only the lonely,

Only the lonely,

Seeking to escape

The yellow light

Hanging in the windows of the sickly,

Every town has them

Hiding in a bedroom

Reading under the cover of darkness

Old sheets bleached

Within an inch of their lives

Dreaming of a future in finance

Apprentice entrepreneurs

Believing the archetype

Becoming collectively deranged

Wishing themselves into a story

Climbing a green hill

Crowning themselves with thorns

Falling

Deeply into a daydream

Before finishing a page.

Creating a magical beginning

Before its legacy is tarnished

Carried out dead to the world

In a blind stupor,

Making a fortune in the markets

Selling pipedreams

From the back of a lorry

Fitted with a mobile application

To unload the flatbed

Of a broken start-up.

Too many lazy buggers all in a row

Waiting to conform to the norm

As the lights go down on Broadstreet

The fulfilment of childhood dreams

Gathered up in twilight

Rolled up into a general-purpose

Metaphor

Hung from the highest tree

Which is a yardarm

For the age of innocence

And a model of sobriety

For the disciples of rage,

Waiting in blind trust

To re-establish a belief in faith healing.

It is always the hopeful who wade

Through the overflow

Of transmission

Trying to find a shadow of themselves

In the anima and animus

Of full integration

Into the body of a story

They may never write

But will continue to read

Until they become a hero.