Trees streak by their green growing in streaks
The silver of cars burning under hood hot
Filing past in rows of dozens where they go I know not
Sit and look out o'er blue sky
on which greys slate sits
undermining the suns eye.

No Hippocratic seat for yourself as you sit
A rumbling monster whose clustered innards fits
Not maximum hold of seventy or more
but three simple strangers whose tongues are on hold
One chatters into her phone,
"dad I'm here" she yells as we roll
Another lost in a paper, brow furrowed
Last one sits staring outside,
wondering whom would listen to what's on their mind

A Mist and a flicker are both on the eye
when the ticky tacky houses flash right by
the little boxes the people live in, in their boxed in life
no thinking nor worrying, just droning sheeples strifes
of what to wear, what to eat, what friend to invite
to your consumptious ball of material delights
The time spent there with significant others
a dallop in the bucket of insignificant troubles

Last updated: 2014-08-15

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