Day in, day out.

The hum of the day
was muted and grey
it sank through the cracks
that drone of decay,
the men in black suits,
the women the same,
trudged off to their work
and soldiered again.

A procession it seemed,
this morning in town,
a funeral march
darkened streets up and down,
the flood of tired mourners
with sunken in eyes,
dreams left on the shelf
beneath corporate disguise.

The painters, the dancers,
the artists in each,
straight jacketed up,
and gagged of their speech,
the children, come adults,
come elderly grey
with passions snuffed out
by the hum of the day.

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