Ghosts of the Underground

A poem I wrote about when seeing the sad faces of commuters

The screetch
Of metal
On metal
An Alcatraz
On wheels
Through the glass
Misty pupils
Stare past me
Lost in an
Unknown dimension 
Their lips sag
From the weight
Of regret
Their free spirts
Crushed into conformation
Their skins anaemic
Sucked pale by
The 9-5 routine
Traveling to and from
Their Ikea inspired
Isolation cells
Trapped in a
Metropolitan jungle
Where soul devouring
Vultures roost high
On their concrete perches
Growing fat
On consumerism
They live their
Lifes in repeat
The ghosts
Of the underground