Psycho

Psycho

In a dim-lit draught of London’s sigh,
the mind unfurls its fragile, stitched façade—
a chiaroscuro of id and fore‑winged bone,
where spectres of the past dangle thin.

The night‑time alleys of Camden keep secrets,
smoky whispers that turn pane to panel;
here the psyche spills ink—thick as Dahl’s dust,
and the architecht of dread paints her own skyline.

Colourless futures flash in the flicker of a reel,
for in the cinema’s hushed glare a mirror is set:
the ticking of a heart between film and fear,
a quiet scream—psycho speaks in a hush of steel.

In gravel streets of round‑the‑corner tea stalls,
the junk of human thought hangs in cracked jars;
They turn the pages of their own marbled script,
and on the brink of logic they all, unbidden, surrender
to the gentle or the mayhem that always lies beneath—
cherishing the fragile frame of a mind that refuses to be caged.