We partied that night
like it was two thousand and twelve.
Seven years of promise,
London on top of the world!

Running late to the bus
in the crisp morning air,
everyone was still smiling
entering Tavistock Square.

A light. A blast. A force unknown.
Into my arms my friend was thrown.
From his face the future had passed,
and in my hands he breathed his last.

The sirens surrounded, pulled away.
Ambulance, hospital, removed my stains.
Walked a sea of empty faces
into a bar where drink erases.

Familiar scars on a face unknown
approached through the evening haze.
Her only words spoken were these
‘Help me fuck the pain away.’

Bruised bodies bumped and embraced
in an emotional tomb.
We brought not the return of our lost,
just eased the undressed wounds.


Copyright 2015 P.J. Sheppard