This must be it.
The holy land that was a said to be.
Filled to the brim with people.
Only none of the faces are that of friends.
Just a conundrum of silence and.
Desolate expressions.
Even eye contact is avoided.
For fear of catching some imaginary disease.
Contracted through acknowledgement.
So the wandering begins.
Single file.
Through invisible rope ways  
Giving this limbo some form of organization.
Days and nights pass.
They soon will mean little more than the number next to it.
For keeping count.
Is the only highlight in abundance.