Manchester's Rain.
Manchester's Rain. issue stories

Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
I love my city, but it does have some problems that it needs to address. Ironically I'm writing this on the one day of the year that is sunny, but they say its the best disinfectant so perhaps its all a metaphor.

Manchester's Rain.

So absent is this, A community that falters, Where mothers turn on sons, And in turn, they on their daughters. And does anyone notice, In the Manchester rain, That batters and bruises,

And swallows the pain, Of it all. While we tucked snug in our beds, Far from these worries, These fears and these dreads, Think only of ourselves, Little lives in our heads.

We are safe, Out of place, A diaspora of the mind, In Manchester's rain, That renders us blind, And unfeeling as we hurry, To our ivory towers,

Filled with books and looks, The elite and their powers, To do everything. We do nothing. Shrug it off for more glamour, And block out our ears, To the deafening clamour,

'Til the clouds cover all, With Manchester's rain, We drown out the call, To which we do blame, On the undeserving many, Who we spare not a penny, Who we leave out to die,

As we all pass on by, Instead of somewhere safe to stay. And warm food to eat, Oh no, instead we choose our feet, To stare at as we walk on our old cobbled street,

And the needles that cover it all. Tipped with a lethal strain, Of Manchester's rain, That poisons the brain, With pride. Some lied, some cried, Some lay down and died,

Frozen to death in the snow. Lost in the frost, The lives that were cost, For a dream of what Heaven is like. And with blood-shot eyes, They see only the despise,

Of those who would rather hate, Than help. And the nation that forgot to care, Forgot to feel, So how can it heal? With the same old prayers and the same old spiel,

That do nothing to bandage the wounds. There's not a thought of what's right, Or what's fair. But they're there, Paralysed in smog and miasmery air, That chokes, and coats,

And smothers. The acid that burns the faces, The places, the spaces, All dissolving away. In return are high-rises, Not homes, not today, Not now, not ever,

'Til we remember the forgotten, Whose numbers stretch on - Forever.

Like tears comes the rain, In the end, it's a game, And perfection we feign. --- That, Is Manchester's shame.

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