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