Will Vigar

poet. writer. imposter.

England Underground

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Like any other day,
the sun rose not caring 
that the earth would steal
its light, holding onto it like
like a frenzied mother

smothering her child.
Not caring that the streets
-  garlanded with the corpses -
shimmered at its touch
but coaxing discarded, 

tanned flesh to spoil;
staving off the ennui 
by feeding the future soil.
Unmoved by mannequins, 
frozen in unnatural gesture, 

screaming their silence 
to no one. Indifferent 
to surrendered galleries
that decay, aided by 

unchecked ultraviolet. 
The sum of human
endeavour in dust
as the last man, tears 
boiling on his cheek 

whispers from his once 
cool cistern, to gasping 
rats, ragged and fading,
‘All we had left 
was our history’.

Picture Credit: © Steve Duncan / Barcroft Media

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