Crowds

How is it with this world when everything is an indifferent glance?
A chance; a pass, because the world moves too fast.
And I tell myself that I'm not on display
Every day of days of counting days,
Passing eyes that stare across concrete stairs,
And facing hollow faces.
Empty minds.
They are worn-down stones that know the earthly grinds.

And there is NO silence
No silence for me here to hear
Not even in death.
Mechanical brawls, birdcalls and echoes in the halls
Would sing above the shouts.
Even the slow drip,
                            drip,
                                  of red blood
    Could drown out any doubts.