An unwelcome pile of poetic-looking sludge
outside a bedroom window, sparks
a funeral march of churning cars-
solemn faces, paces slow.
Caged nature escaped- the landscape raped-
time frozen beneath a polar-bear embrace.
Thwarted man surrenders, a pathetic sight:
"Beaten by a sprinkle of white!"
(We only imagined it was a fair fight)
The suicide rates- no incentive to wait-
rocketing, targeting fast-moving trains.
The children applaud you, wrapped up in wool;
the commuters know that it's personal.
London's public forms a steam,
so desperate to disperse;
a snow-capped car becomes a funeral hearse.



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