London calling.

The sun breaks on the last vestige of the night
Revealing gaunt towers that wrestle with the sky,
And cold shards of light fall on pitiless throngs
Who dive below the earth in terror of it all.

Thus morning comes to the city,
Where the countless swarm in the streetscapes,
Hemmed into their own purgatory.
Mired in the useless labours of the masses,
And the mindless games of laws and numbers.

This city which feeds on the dreams of its children
Draining their blood through the tellers hands
Storing it in the vast vaults where money
Talks of the cruel silence and the rattle of chains.

And through the day they fall through the parched land.
Faces that have the tired look of blandness,
Stare at each other with their egg faces,
File their hopes away in their unnerving solitude.

Canyons of glass and steel rise up without roots
Trying to touch the moon, they are the blisters
Swaying in the fetid breeze hiding the cold men
Drunk on the blood of their brothers.

There is no dancing here in this sea of tears
Only the withered faces of the insane
And the tremendous silence of the land
Long lost to the voices of the damned.


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