On Jermyn

In a little place past Piccadilly lies a Red Lion with golden jewelled walls created with elegant reflections, outpouring with streams of Amber.
There still lies the skeleton of once was.
Only gloss puts on a new skin to revitalise the landscape.

Oxford Circus detour:
A degenerate new beginning with no sense of soil breeds high fashion and discontented protestors.

I read and am not here nor there, yet I am close and fit in the puzzle as if unaware that there was a puzzle to begin with.
I forget everything I seek and sit to live with myself.
No guru can see me through if I am to be truly free.