Strangers, all in one crammed tiny room,

locked away and blinded like sheep for the slaughter

nurtured and cultivated by the warmth of the sun,

tended by the sunrise, charmed by the sunset

taught of the rules of regularity of a bee’s nest or the bright

yellow ray florets of the sunflower

tricked by the orderly chaos of flowers blowing in the wind,

dancing and swaying beautifully.


Strangers, taught how to cry whilst watching

the raindrops fall and explode like little hand grenades or blank shots;

a west end production by the harmless hooligans from two blocks away

persuaded to run, like the rain on a car window

speeding on the motorway to nowhere important

binding and linking and joining and mixing like a chemical reaction or cells under a microscope

and then running off somewhere, forgotten.


Strangers, chained down by a drug called emotion all addicted

to feeling, craving danger, fear, loathing, loving, laughing

rooted down permanently like an old oak in an open field

dragging the chains like slaves, stamping bodies with memories and scars like bold

beaten helpless men, imprisoned and stained with a code.


Strangers all desperate to destroy and destruct

yet to be remembered with a purpose, used, talked about, like the fossils

buried in the ground- the only useful corpse

like the ideologically preserved reconstructed creatures from thousands of years before

time was defined.


Strangers willing to unite, somewhere sometime in this overgrown garden

find out and discover and fly free like the seeds of the spherical grown dandelions

rapidly colonising disturbed soil and coping with the so called damage.


Strangers only for a week

he be a gardener not a watchmaker

so who else can truly measure time

or say if its a simple straight line?


One thought on “Strangers

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