Train of thought

The train to Bridgeton kept it simple. 

No scurrying about for parking, 

time to take in the sun at the cross, 

watching the locals passing by.

The heaviness of spirit 

that poverty brings, seems to

have evaporated in the sunshine, 

and I sense freedom in the air.

Children in prams, 

youths laughing together; 

no sign of malice or misery 

as they go about their day.

How good is the sun?

Free to all, in a world 

that measures success 

by your bank balance.

These people, oppressed 

by the system of meritocracy, 

because of their postcode.

I mean, does anything 

good come from Bridgeton?

I ask myself, what makes 

these people less than 

the royals, who drain millions 

from the coffers, believing 

that they are entitled to it?

Just like the spirit of anti-christ, 

there’s always an heir 

who continues this 

demonic practice of 

letting the people starve, 

to buy a new gold carriage

At the end of life, 

we all leave as we came; 

naked and alone.

Death, the great equaliser, 

gets us all-eventually.