Poetry

In every face that I behold,
I see a certain chill, a certain cold
and in the distance white mine heaps glimmer
light flash over tall buildings, glass windows shimmer
and it is not the Johannesburg of old
 
and everybody fits in,
the gum sniffing beggar children
with faces becoming obscure
and waggling limbs now miss-formed without a cure
 
the street whores, displaying their wares
smiling as without a care, with a cheap kind of glamour
calling out obscenities
 
along with workers from manufacturing industries
walking in rubber boots
in blue overalls 
 
and even the people in ties and suits
who are in cahoots
with the moneymen
 
fit perfectly in to a heartless city without a soul
where the value of money is the criterion
that turns men and women into carrion,
in a place that imprisons, like a huge enormous gaol.