The doors shut and thudded in
the next of us.
The room's enclosed;
An enclosure.
The conveyor belt beneath our feet began
whirling again a sorrow theme.
The screen flashed white, black and green,
replaying a recurrent scene.
Our feet get dragged, trodden:
Aligning to a certain scheme.
Our arms flail about,
grasping at everything.
The conveyor belt churns
and puts us in packagings.
Towards the end of the room we head,
and disappear like a dream.
YOU ARE READING
Snippets
Poetry"Snippets" is a collection of what I deem to be the best of my early poetry. Often written late at night, I like to think of them as snippets of my phenomenological experience at certain points in life, a memory of thought out of time that I can rea...
