High life.

Living the high life,
self-appointed King in a vertical concrete ghetto.
It’s there that all the decisions are made
undisturbed by the street level drifters.
Entry; strictly verboten to the outside world.

Peering through cigarette stained fingers
at the inhabitants below. Insignificant;
neither subjects nor enemies.
Creations of a repugnant existence,
urchins of the lowland terrain.

But you forget old friend,
I know you far too well, having stood
on the 22nd floor of your inner sanctum.
Paranoia breeds amongst the empty beer cans,
discarded spoons and magazine cuttings.

Leaving your shopping at the door
I catch a glimpse of you through the letterbox.
How did it come to this?
A shell of a man I once loved and knew,
sweet brother John, are you ever coming back?