Ipswich

I can hear every foot step,
A pale consequence of movement,
A collection of echoes that murmur like a breath.
No one stands in unity.
They obtain isolation in both journey and direction.
It’s a wonder they don’t all clash with their faces hanging down to the gum stained brick.
Dull tones mark their skin,
Eyes reflect, like the sea, a constantly stationary institution of grey.
Tides of predetermined reality make the depth all that deeper.
A crashing wave will not clean the floor.

A pointless path of repeated of sorrows,
Their own individual cycles of perception glaze over what could be seen.
To revive the spaces in which those masks of being and culture non-coexist.