Kensington Gardens

                              The moist tranquil city,  in it's reoccurring awe of  luminous enclosures, spreads out onto an urban arena of damp wooded greenery,  a torn mist of captivating landscapes,  and barbarous architecture. Strolling through the foregrounds one early spring day, before the pigeons grove, an erect marble edifice towering skyward,  against the shimmering noon, then in the anticipating folly of cycling pedestrians, embedded elm trees surface the soiled grass. 
                              A muddy passage above a riverside bank, then browning foliage scattering throughout the dank hillside. Winter remains buried by the passing Autumn. Sparrows take to the southern skies and fly out northward, onto a distant peninsula. Off in the remote heavens, a passing train runs it's course, below the concrete infrastructure. A bum and an empty bottle take a temporary reprieve, aside the abandoned footbridge. .                                                In the mid afternoon, your spring time love has peaked much too soon. In the delightful pretense of desirable imagery, one must recall the violent flames recoiling in a broadened fall. Through all the cold hardships and finances grown short, to this passion ideal, I must retort,. it is I that have grieved the unbearable pain, of a thousand lost souls, that naively stormed the bloody beaches of Normandy.
                           My Tuesday routine of toast and tea at the corner delicatessen, I sit patiently looking over the paper in a corner booth. The owner, a miserable self employed foreigner, asks If I would care for a top on my black coffee. I would. I stare mouldy out the long curtained window. When the day reaches it's intolerable climax,  I take to my sordid chamber, that lies upon a dark residential intersection on the outskirts of town. On arriving home,  I grimly mount the firm marble staircase, up to my third story vessel. From my conspicuous trench coat, I pull a torn paper bag surrounding a translucent bottle of spirits . I climb up to the building's frail rooftop  (weather providing), and sit drinking, passing through the sultry hours of dusk, then onto the pale moments of morning.
                       I recklessly hurl my cellphone at a tree every night, (if the weather is right, and it usually is),. simply due to the fact that my reality is diminishing rapidly beyond the fluctuated seasons. I've invested on "insurance", for my phone solely for this purpose. Perhaps I've grown mad in my elderly years, or maybe I'll blame the evanescent moon, in the midst of it's voluptuous cycle.