London I

Everyone here is there own imperfection
Shoved into the light raw and soft
To be molded and made by the fast heat flash
Of this ever moving place.
Everyone is going constantly. There is no still.
No calm or moment to be alone.
To find that peace one must wrap themselves
In music or in the dark.
Just for that one second of silence.
But even then the crowds will peel back their eyelids
To bring them back to the busy and the full.
Everyone here is so busy living that they
think not of those who are busy dying
Or that they, one day, will too.

Posted by:isabellahume

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