Thunder cracks in dreary stone split skies. Jarred
As the looming clouds, I am drenched in blues
As I scrap the scribbled lines I learnt by heart
For you. Another wasted sonnet fused
By tears and cloudburst with pain. The storm
Of my soul plays an aimless song again,
A cyclone melody trapped by its form.
Fourteen lines rotate like a weather vane
Searching for the direction I can’t find,
While new rain in this constant streaming city
Spirals the memories stuck in my mind.
I’m left with the rhymes of strained self-pity
As I slowly trace the trickle of drops
And wait inside for the storm to stop.
The legacy Salford venue is set to be taken over by the owners of a nightclub next door as BASTION. Users online voiced issue about a supposedly AI launch poster, and a smoothing over of The White Hotel’s diverse gig programming
