This brushed stainless steel landscape.
Where DO flowers grow?
Now it's crossed my mind I'm seeing
them everywhere.
And I think I've worked it out-
it's them fucking people!
As a population of extras, a mob of cynics,
they play their part badly.
Propagate the most unlikely dreams
and tend the ground for any chance bulb.

This office in the sky
glass tower impenetrable to vision
just a dazzling reflection there.
No bleeding heart or black eyed susan to see.
Polished marble slates wipe clean
unmarked but for the shadow, a passing spirit.
Now I can play the cynic as well
as anyone (badly) but I know 
seeds have been sown. In the total war
of grey against colour, apathy against action,
 they say grey wins the day. I see green shoots 
in the handful of earth they have 
appropriated for their pot.
By the magic of starlight, pinks and blues,
salves of the soul in every pastel shade,
take up their positions, as snipers,
at grey-veiled windows throughout 
that beloved metaphor of the cynics
the old concrete jungle.
An uncompromising freedom fighter never
thought he'd have to say to them fucking people-
thankyou.