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
keith jeffries
Mon 7th May 2018 08:59
Martin,
thank you for your comment. It is much appreciated.
Keith