Puddles and Potholes

Tidal. It's a beautiful puddle, isn't it? Walking past the

job center. Shut us down, lights out. Just a queue of tired faces

wondering what it's all about. No smoke from the chimneys now, just the scent

of weed and spice. People trading their souls just to pay a desperate

price. I see the lines drawn in the map, invisible walls,

where the us and the them stay inside their own halls. Segregated streets divided

by the fear and the cold. While the kids in the broken homes do exactly

what they're told. The poverty's awake. It's a dampness in the brick, making everyone bitter,