The Flock

It is winter
On the estate
Behold the flock of fledgling souls
Bedecked in Nike, Fila, Adidas
Or maybe Puma
If they’re strapped for cash.
They gather blindly
Like human sheep
Around their phones, their chilly bones
Whilst attitudes of futility around them creep.
In other prosperous boroughs the children sleep
But this is my estate
Where the road that’s paved in gold is just too steep.

Huddled, puddled, muddled youths
Lost already to the culture
Where knives are toys
And guns an aspiration.
And profanity is a cocky demonstration
Of rebellion.
With a gangsta culture a big inspiration
With the rap, the culture map, the deadly crap
That they live up to.
Crime a game of fuck the police
Cos life is not a cashpoint machine
And money does not come free
And neither does liberty
If the cops have their way.

And this is my estate
They flock in parks where drink
And oblivion
Ease the weight of being shit in the world
And ease the pain of a future where
The doors are already shut in their faces
And they already know they’re not going places
One road journey
And this street is a dead end.
And they are children
But they lost their childhood already.
And this is their piss poor legacy
And this is my estate.

© Sarah Drury 2019