Alarm bells ring at five in Collins Street
To signal the end of another day.
Workers emerge from their small cubicles,
Faces bland, expressionless and boring.
Like a thick, black mass, we walk to the train
others stop at the pub for a quick drink.
But nevertheless we all make it home,
Where we become unique and different,
Rather than a speck in dull conformity
wandering home through Collins Street at Five.
Nobody in the group dares make a sound
For fear of breaking the monotony.
The same is repeated everyday
To and from Collins Street, from Nine to Five.
The lack of individuality
Most peoples lack of imagination
Makes us appear like sheep following
each other through continuous dullnes.
And as the rickety train clatters home,
The whole cycle is repeated again
In lonely Collins Street, from Nine to Five.
michael johns
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/alive-but-not-conscious/
