I Was Oxford

Imagining that fortress

Painted the way we design,

With a cityscape behind,

A memory out of the dark;

Listening to Bach

Out on the terrace,

Days filled with wine,

Leading punts from the garden

That peaked by St. Benet’s

And the road of Sir Giles

I travel, tip-toed;

With trepidation,

Where would its sliver be given?

There in the secrecy:

The passage next to heaven.

It was really St. John’s,

As the route through sufficed,

With the in-house musicians

Playing flutes with the thrice-

Leaned man, money aside,

It was what I wanted-

What I decreed,

In the life that I agreed upon,

My own and yourself

Entwined with silver bands.

There, we were to be set,

Spires as hands,

Eyes, the windows of the sloping

City, sloping brows

With a running sunset

Between meant for we

Two, lying under that

Gorgeous, golden eye.

Thoughts of somewhere better

Than the land we surround,

Common streets dirty,

Houses less grand;

Surmising a future

From those threads of lust

That I have created,

Some place that you must

Be part of. Craving is an evil,

Money-aside, delicious and tainted.

I was Oxford, for you,

Made of stone, built up,

Left to do what you do.

The End

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