In the crowd but not of it,

I’m swept along like a leaf.

A floater, fleetingly feeling his way,

Unwittingly seeking relief.

I’m part of the crowd but aloof,

Out of hundreds, a singular cell.

Unnoticed, unheard, it’s all somehow absurd,

We each have a story to tell.

Vapourisation, some weird conflagration,

Should suddenly cause me to cease,

The crowd, though diminished, flows on to the finish,

Content with its version of peace.

Stephen Tomkins
7 October 2018
Osaka