I’ve been stranded in Manchester for almost a week now. In that time I’ve already worked out that people are a bit peculiar and live by a culture completely different to mine.
I can’t delve into where I’m actually from too much but you’ll learn more as time goes on.
I don’t see many trees. I don’t see much grass either. The greenery I do see seems to have been put there to balance some sort of regulation using a buildings : greenery ratio.
I’ve met some interesting people. Some lovely people. Sometimes I wonder if they’re real at all though. Sometimes it all just feels like an infinite dream. I don’t know if I’m awake, but I don’t know if I ever fell asleep either.
But anyway, here is a short poem I’ve written about Manchester. It goes like this.
Manchester Pt. I
Moons that glisten on a shore,
Of potholes, gloom and bolted doors.
A patch of grass, caged by the pavement,
Towers in imperfect placement.
Police cars and shooting stars,
A sound and sight through glass.
Life and joy, despair and loss,
Too much, too young; too fast.
A city with a claim to names,
and others thereon after.
You built the bridge,
You burnt the bridge,
You build more,
Like a book that never finishes,