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The Passage

The Passage

 

They aspire to nothing but shuffle about

aimless is their existence

Walking along a white painted corridor

bland, with closed doors on either side

The building is their tomb

as the living dead languish in contentment

They peer through windows in search of life

but cannot see the wood for the trees

A silent world given no purpose

their indolence is almost heroic

Cigarettes are smoked with drinks at hand

they are poor spectators of nothing

Life lacks even the crumbs of lustre

as they pass their time in a white painted corridor

🌷(2)

◄ A Suburban Jungle

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keith jeffries

Mon 7th May 2018 08:59

Martin,
thank you for your comment. It is much appreciated.
Keith

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Martin Elder

Sun 6th May 2018 20:08

This is a great poem Keith. I love its pace and rhythm. love that last line

as they pass their time in a white painted corridor

marvellous

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keith jeffries

Sun 6th May 2018 14:48

Brian & Colin,
thank you for your comments. Keith

<Deleted User> (13762)

Sun 6th May 2018 10:13

a drug-induced contentment perhaps? Interesting poem Keith.

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