Egged on by voices, not of their own
They race head on
Through streets lit with fire
Chasing neon cascades past upstairs clubs.
A parade of life daring to exist
In a world collapsing with every struggling breath,
Clogged lungs coughing up onto pavements
Bereaved thoughts left to sit in shop doors
Rattling cups for any chance of change,
Deranged beliefs spewed across countertops
Stuffed into pockets along with tickets
For midnight buses full to the brim,
Faces glaring from the gallery
Chugging down the road
Pointing and leering at those stumbling fools
Too sick to stand up unaided.
They run on driven by desperate needs
To be the one left standing at the end
Opening their hearts, exposing souls
Beating to a rhythm stolen from the dead,
Hoping to outrun the voices
Telling them to slow down.
They light fires as they go.
© Chris Noonan
Thank you for reading.
This is a follow up to a poem I wrote a couple of months ago called Catastrophic Glow. It’s a scene that rattles around inside my head every now and then. Street life chaos witnessed as a passerby.