The Cliched Rhythm...
Embalms the disturbed mind with solitude or noise.
The dust remains everywhere.
The rubble and grey'ness' of disorder
pervades!
People of colour,
Colour on their faces....
Colour on their hands...
Disguising dark spaces...
Obliterating a past of this land....
Some to light some to darkness..
But all immersed in a common unhappiness...
The harsh smells...
The thatched roofs near high rise discrepancies
And mouths to feed and souls to please..
Trains move onward...
From home to work and work to play.
And travellers walk platforms by night and by day...
Some get stranded others wait..
Some never cross over to the light of day...
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