You.
Against a leaden backdrop, blue and mercury hues
Common, not feral, framed by immortal hand or eye*
Solitude amongst slated slopes and smokestacks piled high
The chaos of crowds that criss-cross below
and their choking machines in meaningless flow
Over prosaic precinct and resigned passers by
Soaring and falling through insipid sky
White light leaks from office block
A bleak face behind glass, filling holes, watch the clock
Numbed by the hum of xerox
The thrum of the inbox
Soporific, in numbered alcove, ensnared, enclosed
Transfixed in your flight, the way the wind blows
Tumbling, turning, alive, juxtaposed
*The William Blake reference is not plagiarism, it's a reference!
ReplyDeleteWho would not look up from the ball and chain of machine-led drudgery and envy the freedom of this winged creature, darting soaring and weaving at will with no deadlines or shackles. This is living. Why am I not out there too in the hills and moors in my flight of fancy? Gazing down from his vantage point the creature questions man's insanity. What are you all doing down there? What is the point of it all?
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