Certain of the future, convinced in their ignorant and laughing minds,
The people bustle along the grey and soiled pavements,
Dull and clean throughout the day,
Immersing themselves in vulgarity, when the night strikes.
The institutions which shake their hands with a grin,
Holding a revolver behind their backs.
They, the colourless flock, are at liberty in their cosy cages,
Expressing themselves with drink and drugs to create the haze,
Necessary to sustain the illusion.
Hope dies each day a person refuses to be curious,
Expectations are ground like coffee beans.
I see the dull and apathetic crowd and think of the past.
The past holds me back,
Persuading me to listen and asserting that I don’t know.
Perhaps one day the crowd will carry me away into the future,
And the nights will roar with misery and thoughtlessness,
The answers becoming only vague replies.
And yet, if the past holds me tight,
I will never succumb.
Remember, remember, remember.