The light ahead looks like its
Been filtered through a Cider Receptacle
Or
Wine Bottle
Much like this
Withered Wretch
Who
fights
on
Wind Swept
And
Rain
Drenched
&
Late for the train
again
And on this broken pavement he
does so lightly tred
Whilst
The Moon-reflects
The Tangerine
Walk way
Where
The Street Light
And twilight
inter-Play
and
do so
together
Finely
Affect
In this
polluted atomosphere
His Suit
Now
Saturates
A pallid
Blechead
Orangey Grey
And he is reminded
OF his
Work
and
That
Outside of
mere survival
Time
Spent there
Means
Nothing
He gets to London
And the Light
has changed
now
And
He's Surrounded
By suited commuters
In their Black suits
Waddeling together
Like
Indifferent Penguins
He looks down at his
Own
Suit
To find
No such change
an air of panic
And anxious
tremors
Infuse his
nervous
system
as he looks
around to see
Who has noticed
But no one has noticed
No one is even looking at eachother
I look at these
commuters
I mean really look
and outside
of
the blackness
of their
suits
and
what it means
here
to wear
one
i see nothing
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