The monotonous drone of clanking steel upon steel,
With an occasional hiccup, forever numbing,
A random judder, from time to time, would raise its head,
Breaking the boredom of old, tired, decaying, lines
running,

Faces as blank as clean sheets, or a snow covered field,
Lay depressingly, in various states, thoughts well steeled,
Someone's sweaty palm, grasped the cold, bobbled, yellow
pole.
A bump, unexpectedly causing anxious glances,

Only a brief space in time and moment, seconds but.
The dull empty greyness completed the boring view,
A century of polluted Mancunian skies,
Partnered with heavy rhythmic beats of infamous rain,

Headlines. Something about Britain turning a corner.
Another minister 'done' for dodgy garden claims!
Apparently, we are 'on the up' so they tell us.
Many reasons to be a proud Britain, they shout out.

Clickety, clack. Another bump, a girl nudged aside
Dropping her chippy paper onto the floor, ink smudged.
It was a beautiful morning, the sun was 'trying'.
Throwing a constant, but warm, sprinkling of light,
through.
It exploded upon glass, blue spots before my eyes.

In the distance, a gloomy black cloud, moved gracefully,
Soon, it would reach its full impending potential.
The pavements were to be cleansed, oh so beautifully,
In the wonderful acidic juices of nature.
Compliments of mans unwelcome refuse, here to boot.

Millions upon billions, upon I don't know,
How many years, querying all of mans distant fears,
Gods beautiful orb of blue sea and green land, had sat,
Perched amongst the stars, a dazzling and enchanting,
Exhibit on top of a plinth, like a cheshire cat.

But in that of a mere few thousand years, not many more,
Neanderthals of men had found ways to extinguish,
All that it was, all that its beauty had ever been.
Tarnished, butchered, raped. An apocalypse now? Maybe.

Clickety clack. A slightly more profound bump is felt.
Again, a sudden jerk, I feel a pull in my back.
Some coffee splashes, but only slightly, from the cheap,
Paper mug, landing with some cat-like agility,
And strategic precision, upon his cheap leather.
An unwise decision, I'd never shopped at Primark.

I gave a half-hearted smile. I let go. Stained, i thought!
The Metro was reaching the final leg of its line.
Soon today would reach its final biological,
End, reasons to let go? I don't really care or know.

The clutter of dark, expression-less faces, prepared
To disembark. Papers folding, confined to the trash.
I grabbed the briefcase, that sat patiently by my feet,
The end of the journey had come, my time was now up.

An irritating 'bong' sound, signalled time to exit
The small, over-crowded, dirty, cluttered, broken cell.
Twelve more hours would pass and then once more the same
routine,
Would follow, monotonously, inevitably,
Predictably.

A final stop at the station perhaps. At rest?
Waiting for the scythe to do the deed, oblivion,
Hanging.
Greens, blues, yellows and reds, passing the baton, only
To an endless mass of thick congealed and ruined
Blackness.

A heavy cloud presses down, a pressure almost brings
Tears to ones eyes, unbearable. A bird sitting perched,
No longer flies.
Barren upon barren, perhaps, maybe the lying
Calendar, holds less days than last year, less everything,
For the next generation to deal with and to fear.

I'm far from the station now. A dot on a useless,
Featureless and spent, concrete horizon. The rain starts
To fall as I kick an empty can out of the way.
Rain, Rain go away, and come again another day.
But how many more are left? One couldn't truly say.