I can sense the breathing of the city
Even though the windows and the curtains are closed.
I’m doing everything I can to shut out the light,
Yet I know the city keeps right on living all around me,
Hemming me in. Cocooned within glass and steel
A manufactured being in a designer prison that is all too real.
I can’t stand this conditioned air, the sterile thoughts
And pretending to be civilised enough for this society.
For how it plugs me into its desires,
The pleasure centre stimuli.
For all the antiseptic pollutants that it uses to subdue me
Are not enough recompense for what this city demands of me.
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.
Made of sticks and stones 