The grey faceless people down below,
Huddled, mumbling amongst themselves,
Suited, balding, strangely symettrical,
Like a stock exchange on tranquilisers,
Long since lost hope of salvation,
Or even the knowledge of its existence,
Wondering, waddling aimlessly around,
Like grey snooker balls with senile dementia,
Like bubbles with haircuts and dandruff,
Communicating, muttering, whispering indistinctly,,
I can't pick out the words.
They have as little personality as a glass of water has color,
But together, like the sea, they are my personality,
I try to reach down to touch them,
But there is a field of silence between us,
When I die, they will rise up,
Into thin air like bubbles through knives,