I am bored by the sight of my street,
It never
seems to change.
The sky is standard
English grey.
Windows of
similar semi-detached houses,
Masked with
net curtains and blinds,
Seem like indifferent
expressionless eyes.
One seagull honks as it flies by,
Is it
wondering why it’s so far from the ocean?
I feel no
emotion as I wait
For a van to
bring me groceries.
I am a lucky
old man,
In other
streets houses explode in flames,
And vehicles
deliver teams of assassins.
Residents hide
in cellars and under beds.
Hot metal death
screams through the sky,
They hope it
will pass them by
Or they run as
far and as fast as they can
Boredom doesn’t
feature in their concerns.
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