Two stories, intertwined to weave a web,
Of elaborate lies and hidden secrets.
Parallel truths of a renowned city:
London, the city where they come to live.
London, the city where they go to die.
A cacophony of colours, vibrantly singing,
Reds that foxtrot and blues that Waltz,
Twirling, swirling, laughing, swinging,
Shining bright till dawn takes its course.
Whilst peeling greys in burnt out husks
Of building's corpses, thrown down by the tantrum of time,
Get signed by the shaking hands of addicts,
In dripping graffiti and shattered windows.
In an office, hands soft from perpetual ease,
Poking out from crisp white sleeves,
tap methodically at keys,
Maintaining a facade they all believe.
A few streets down, fingers:
Tobacco stained and streaked with yellow,
Pierce a quivering needle into
Their master's begging flesh.
A girl who seeks definition in numbers,
Who needs a crowd to hear her message,
Seeks knowledge in eternal wonders
Of London streets' bleeding essence.
Yet the boy who drowns in pounding feet,
Melts into the din of a thousand voices,
And his voice pleads a dying whisper,
As he loses himself to anonymity.
By the light of the underground
These juddering truths are evident,
In the despondent eyes fixed on filthy floors,
And the eyes dancing with potential, flitting around the crowds,
Waiting for a chance to shine.
London is a lock that guards two doors,
And we are the key that determines our fate.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 1:17 PM UTC
Two stories, intertwined to weave a web,
Of elaborate lies and hidden secrets.
Parallel truths of a renowned city:
London, the city where they come to live.
London, the city where they go to die.
A cacophony of colours, vibrantly singing,
Reds that foxtrot and blues that Waltz,
Twirling, swirling, laughing, swinging,
Shining bright till dawn takes its course.
Whilst peeling greys in burnt out husks
Of building's corpses, thrown down by the tantrum of time,
Get signed by the shaking hands of addicts,
In dripping graffiti and shattered windows.
In an office, hands soft from perpetual ease,
Poking out from crisp white sleeves,
tap methodically at keys,
Maintaining a facade they all believe.
A few streets down, fingers:
Tobacco stained and streaked with yellow,
Pierce a quivering needle into
Their master's begging flesh.
A girl who seeks definition in numbers,
Who needs a crowd to hear her message,
Seeks knowledge in eternal wonders
Of London streets' bleeding essence.
Yet the boy who drowns in pounding feet,
Melts into the din of a thousand voices,
And his voice pleads a dying whisper,
As he loses himself to anonymity.
By the light of the underground
These juddering truths are evident,
In the despondent eyes fixed on filthy floors,
And the eyes dancing with potential, flitting around the crowds,
Waiting for a chance to shine.
London is a lock that guards two doors,
And we are the key that determines our fate.
