detached observations

Tired of the crowd
The cold hard granite
And thick sliver of artistic glass
Hold my weary weight

Gathering a touch
Of somesort of composition
Slowly silently I watch
A speedy symphony
Of disorder and greed,
My canvas.

"Big issue" I hear
An echo of desparation
With no return, a pound a punnet,
A bunch for two, few will give in
The land locked sirens wail

Dialogue and private chat,
Media and incredulosity,
Some concern and need to dos
Uncontrollable youth and desparation

These are the colours on the canvas

Fear of becoming dizzy
I take from the canvas to the skies
Above these concrete towers are dreams
I ponder the possibility of catching the air
And of riding the clouds

Sadly a mere impossibility
My dreams float up to be
With the clouds and air
It is my curse to live in the chaotic canvas
We call society.