michael johns

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Alive, But Not Conscious

Alarm bells ring at five in Collins Street

To signal the end of another day.

Workers emerge from their small cubicles,

Faces bland, expressionless and boring.

Like a thick, black mass, we walk to the train

others stop at the pub for a quick drink.

But nevertheless we all make it home,

Where we become unique and different,

Rather than a speck in dull conformity

wandering home through Collins Street at Five.

Nobody in the group dares make a sound

For fear of breaking the monotony.

The same is repeated everyday

To and from Collins Street, from Nine to Five.

The lack of individuality

Most peoples lack of imagination

Makes us appear like sheep following

each other through continuous dullnes.

And as the rickety train clatters home,

The whole cycle is repeated again

In lonely Collins Street, from Nine to Five.

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