Circle Line

I fled the city leaving the mayhem
of broken patterns and false etiquette.

I descended deep on moving stairs into the
womb of the labyrinth where, with a slow slide
to stop, doors opened for me, I was suited.

Closeted in a carriage with the low hum of a
contented straight line, ears lulled by the song
of the stations. Spots on lines with the promise
of return.

Brick walls flash past painting me on their
linear comfort.

In my head order prevails, a symmetry
spiralling into a pivot of sameness.
A symbol of contented anonymity.