50 Stories High

“Step into my office, young novice Clear off the tears from your face Because they’re pointlessly burrowing into orifices Tuning wounds that will bloom into a fixed gear race Shift from fifth gear to disgrace And if you don’t have anything to say about today Then trust these crooked, red-rimmed and emerald, eaten, eyes: Tell lies.” Harbouring fostered promises to decorate the walls of his mind It’s in this presidential suite where his highest hopes are hanged On a residential street with six foot of rope in his left hand With no name, no post code, not a scratch on a map Just a decade of decadence and a panicked attack on the senses These walls Adorned with but not defined by their views Of the nature, that, By passing from one room to one room The effect is a walk back Through grave, rave, and womb And this life, flashed before four eyes flickers fragments of favoured tunes Accompaniments to occasions, partnered to soothe But if scarred walls in suite thoughts caused this crescendo of crimson Then it’s the tightest rope that he walks as he walks within them A single-minded reason is mightier than both sword and pen Because this form of self-deceiving is a shortcut walked by so many men As I witnessed in a gallery where the artwork was just a bloodstain And the only vanity the artists knew was a simple word, almost spelt the same He sleeps inside a tower reduced to rubble, which he calls Babel But in a certain light, in the deep of night, it looks like his reward for staying faithful But when it doesn’t, he’ll rent a room, he’ll book the presidential suite Taking in the views to the intoxicating beats http://samnicholasharrison.tumblr.com/