The greatest love I have for London

Stares back at me

In bobbled hats,

Combats,

Combed hair,

An absent glare

A lolling head.

The train we all dread

Carries hopes never said

And silence,

Mainly,

On the lids of too many

Lives

Worn out.
A cage full of quiet creatures,

Who waited for their beanstalks to bloom,

Amidst the gloom of forgotten hours

Underground.

In minutes lost

To our concrete jungle

We might have found the

The true cost

Of paying fares

To stare from vacant windows,

Where time goes by

In darkness.
But somehow

No regret comes to fruition

In the locker room below light;

In London

It is tradition

Not to talk,

‘Have a tea’,

You’ll see,

Tears are reserved

For the paperwork

We’d never get

While watching the world

Beyond single-file turnstiles.