I’ve been doing some work in London this week. Within spitting distance of the Bank of England to be precise.

For a few days I’ve been a commuter, making my way through/with/against the crowds to try and do what I needed to do.

I know this is a little harsh but…

March of the Penguins…

There’s thousands of them,

filling the streets.

All moving forward,

coffee cups in hand.

Seizing the space,

they March on in time.

Stomping out their tune,

to the beat of the humdrum.

~

Where are they going?

What’s it all for?

Heading for employment,

that sucks out the soul.

Looking for purpose,

in the city of fools.

~

Some already realise,

they sold out their dreams,

drowning their sorrows,

with material things.

~

Others think they want it,

whatever that is.

Their moment of truth,

around the next turn.

~

Or the one after.

~

So onwards they march,

these Penguins in suits.

Rats in a race,

with no real end.

~