Beneath a weathered sky walking, comes the brave amongst the broken tall grass
Out into the open a stranger, to a day’s vacant mischief set to rattle bones
The many people buying tickets in the rain, the snow, hands in their pockets, winter’s cold
Wrapped in coats and scarfs these wanders, wait between lost freedoms’ rebels breathe their fade
As unto zombies alive to their pods, their pads, grooving to the ice cut tunes upon a blacktop
Unaware, lost to the numb frozen world turning old, as balaclava faces fail to challenge the wind
Still waiting, just waiting between the lines cold, but wearing music like a blanket, it’s warm fire to the soul
A hundred pound sterling with just a few feet more, then I’ll be finally inside that triple glazed glass door..