And the winding ways of London Underground.
Passageways of ink and all uneven bricks
And a stumbling, reaching folly of a choice.
Down in the black, skeletal digits extend,
Searching for a body, some notion of warmth,
To grasp and cling to in agonised comfort,
Bundling together like climbers in the snow.
Still I blunder on, 'til the sound of footsteps
Following in my sightless and clumsy wake
Makes me break in to an unashamed run,
Darting through the murk of dim tunnels apace.
All at once I am chased. I am panic and fear.
My own hammering feet echo from behind.
From ahead I scream for my stalker to cease,
And now I am the hunter, haunting his back.
Glory, I laugh, I taste and smiling I wake.
Darkness, the night, the bathroom trip with no light.
Fuses blown, I retreat and flick at switches,
Who click back endlessly with no true cause.
The rhythmic snap. I can not make day come.
In starless sable, I reach for the panel again,
Finding again only cool uneven bricks
And this barren, endless, unlit nightmare chase
