Pylons

The half past empty carriage creaks
Forgivingly; golden tracks lend
Escape to a missing sense of
Wholeness, a void created by
A faceless charade of symmetry.
These are the things that people love;
Under-priced aspirations that send
Signals we don’t have to speak.

Softly suffocating sirens
Establish the time and setting:
Hurtling down copied roads, they swerve
To avoid children playing games,
Adults playing games for grown-ups,
Businessmen whose purpose to serve
Consumes their way of life, letting
Hope become channelled through pylons.

Never has the world witnessed such
A unified sense of fading.
The pylons whisper the truth as
Though they are afraid to hurt us,
And, in doing so, lose the trust
That we can aim for bigger things.
They dominate skylines, saying:
Here we stand, visible, out of touch.