The haven

The old men sit silently silver
With toothless slackjaw grins. 
While the air 
-Controlled and conditioned- 
hums into the room 
from above. 
Silence comes from these dry mouths: 
false prophets of the age to come;
While slapped footfalls rule, 
behind the occasional dissent 
of trousered thigh
That is rustling by
Just to be heard in the silence.
The yellow artificial lights stains the skin, 
while magazines are occasionally held up
in a position of artificial defence 
protecting the seemed sacred space 
that exists
between those who sit around
severed apart by cultural ideology.

All the wile, the lines at the window 
Are distorting the beautiful view outside;
These lines appear as scars, bloody bars 
within a room that belies freedom 
In  fact an open prison with an open door 
that is paid for with a kiss.

©adh 2014