The Week. Kill Me.

This is the story of a week.
A week that never was.
A week that never will be.
But be it should, oh yes, it should!

A trial in every sense of the word I propose.
Be warned, it reeks of unexplained trickery.
I speak of a week that will drive you to insanity,
Except that it never will be.

Day 1 – The day it all begins

This city is robbed of transport.
Yes, plundered overnight.
The roads are ripped off the ground
Runways follow suit.

No trains, buses or taxis.
No rickshaws, cars or bikes.
Bicycles went out at the stroke of midnight,
It’s like your city never could commute.

We dare not speak of choppers,
Of airplanes in the endless white.
Vanish into thin air all did,
No trace of immediate respite.

Day 2 – The end of another beginning

“To communicate is to build bridges”,
Pronounce men of word and tech.
They suggest the powers of the Internet,
Phone lines, they say, remain.

They say the city will cope,
Indeed, emerge triumphant it will.
They invoke the spirit, the resilience,
But dare you hope at only their behest?

So those who ordained the transport lift,
Further ordain thus.
Your city is naked, you cannot converse,
Soft speech is all you’ve got.

Day 3 – The day of denial

Initial panic overruled,
A sense of calm prevails.
You numb yourself to the unnerving state of rest,
Pooh! A lucky holiday is all it is.

All will be back to normal, you say.
This is but a dream.
Just a chance to shirk tasks and chores,
With deadlines you may now play.

Day 4 – The day you start to see

What felt like a godsend does no more,
The city has been stripped bare, that’s real, yes it is.
You’re stranded, do you now see?
Stranded with no route in sight.

And there is no one to blame.
Indeed, no reason to name.
Did you desert your places of being, my friend?
Or did your city desert you?

Day 5 – The day you begin to brood

You yearn to kick-start your Scooty Pep.
Your Verna begs your touch.
You ache to feel the rush of a frantic sprint,
And that shared sigh once finally aboard the bus.

Your insides resemble a kaleidoscope,
With shifting images of LED indicators;
Your senses glowing numbers taunt and tease,
For the 8:16 left without you.

You itch to get those files in order,
You know work aplenty awaits.
But some part of you believes that this is it,
To never return to that desk, your fate.

Day 6 – They day the chain snaps

Daily wagers are at wit's end,
Local workers hold on tight.
For much as you insist it is one big city,
Much shorter are some cross-state flights.

Flustered folk must stay home,
Or job-hunt high and low.
“Ah but its quality we want, not numbers”, say employers.
Oh the tables never did quite turn.

Men were quiet thus far, they were,
They hid their fear well.
But to jostle for bare necessities now,
Is it not the very essence of indignity?

Day 7 – The day all jump into the fray

All the men of power and all the men of rank
Now marshal their forces, to maim, to vandalize,
Walk for glory and reward many eager youths will,
But how far and to where?

For who is the enemy? Who is it they fight?
They stand ready, but alas! ready they stand without end.
Dusk will see them fall apart, for a ghost you cannot stab,
This is the end for them then, of muscle there shall be no praise.

Meanwhile you struggle, as you have all week long
You're shackled with no relief in sight,
You stay up nights to devise antidotes for The Week
Don’t. It never will be.