Poem — Bloomsbury

Surely these are the chambers of narcissism

What better way to procure a confession of love?

Than the beauty of the pink lights

And the sorrowful darkness

Of London’s night.

Surely over a French martini

Sharing memories of love

From beyond and from afar

We can learn of the strange age of love we live?

We, as the former scorn

of the land we walk now

Had never learned to accept us

Nor learn the value of sexual freedom

It is always sweeter, however, knowing

That our loves and our beloveds

Have learned to accept ourselves first

To then learn to love our families;

Both the ones we make and the ones

That we wish we had made

When we had the chance.

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