Design

Day after day, untouched by cloud or shine,
lost crowds crowds jostle underground to seek
some raison d’être through the working week
beneath the surface bustle, engine whine.
For some the day begins when in a line
they stand too long for handouts doled with pique.
For far too few is life triumphant [s]peak
prolonged from birth till death by cheques they sign.
What is the rhyme and reason, the design
behind the moving hand whose meaning’s Greek
to most – a host of phantom [s]wills who cheek
to cheek dare seldom dance, who, herded swine,
spend three score years and ten till end of span,
then fade, forgotten, from life’s caravan.

poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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