We Are All To Blame

9th March 2009

The flood of a mass of people.
A familiar voice, shutting the door.
The slow gliding along the straight river.
Tunnels becoming the doors
     to another world
     filled with more than the
     blues and greys.
Modern facility.
The wires and metal that block.
One after a colour
     and after a plant,
     the familiar stripe of
     yellow and blue.
The hiss of the door rambles over a familiar voice.
An old building of grey tagged
     with the colour of recent adolescence.
Untouched mobiles arranged
     in a small mass of distant
     bland colour.
Heightened, above a small platform.
A small world, ignored, rarely visited.
The splash of colour ahead,
     the forbidden scribbles.
A head above the wall – glasses –
     watching the dim view of
     a once popular town –
     dilapidated walls.
That which precedes the monotonous
     whizz of the same thing
     passing by again and again.
Another one yet ignored, by
     the terracotta roofs.
The loneliness of a terrace.
A shadow lies above me.
A woman on her own
     walking towards a bench,
     away from the crowd.
A little ring amongst the chatter.
A yellow car,
     made and designed.
We are all the same.