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?