Soapbox

Wake up to the same grey every day

London's calling but you choose not to answer

Faint echoes of many a night

Are the ever-present spectre in many an alleyway

You board the rail to traverse the realm

Passing by the familiar human geography

Lingering overcast changes to an underground

Toward industrial relics and promises of new futures

Meanwhile, the mental train runs on a parallel schedule

And like clockwork hitting the same stations

Soon the mantras resonate in the skull-cavern