London Poem: Day 213

18 March

Everything blurs,
The contours becoming narrow passengers,
Though it all looks the same,
And no on pays no never mind.
Blind to the world changing
Because we are wrapped in it,
Folding as it folds, and
Pushing it along more that we know.
One can’t help but be blind
As the little things come and sweep away
What the world brings to make us new.
These are all little things
That shake and damn clouding
The whole to which asks us to
Watch it contort together.

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In flux

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