They flurry fashion clad around him,
Bashed and bumped he is upon his knees,
Nought but an obstacle to their purpose,
Just mechanised utilitarian’s ****** into abstraction.

The mishap stagger jounces loose a depth,
A profundity in a shallow weakened him,
His hollow cavern caves into consciousness,
To behold thumping polychrome dances of light.

The wash of sludge slinks down his hands,
In the puddle on the mid of his legs he gapes,
It is a fall of falls to end his deaden tumble,
As he stands he knows not what next to do.

He had death marched his life to a timber box,
Crafted career, projected home for expected wife and child,
He weighs an unlike life of who knows what,
Just not this one where he supposed he was alive.

Wind begs for his tie and so he lets it free,
Looks to the looming tower block prison,
Through the militia of totalitarian drones,
He runs and he runs and he runs.

Through the bustling paves he is a sketched dash,
It is the most paramount of hurries he’d ever began,
His heart flourished as he saw not where he was going,
Knowing only that he would not ever reoccur.