I left my warped mind at New Street

I left my warped mind at New Street,
running every way but forward.
Damp and musky metallic smells
dampen the tale I have to tell,
with that inconsistent drip drop
of my temper tempting my mood
in to rage or melancholy.
Masses of faceless human bots
painfully pull their attention up
from the device that enslaves them
to inform me with their dead eyes
that I’m an outcast to this world.
I return to musty shadows
to watch their high speed, broadband train
whizz past with fibre optic speed;
lonely but for the odd vermin
that scurries along the train tracks,
who’ll stop to judge me with his eye –
a beady, black eye that plagues a city –
before tottering on to hide
from the next non stopping train ride:
that I don’t have a ticket to ride,
I’m not allowed to ride the train.

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