The Vally of the Rich

The vale of the rich A strange place houses as big as castles tall forbidding walls on top of broken glass in cement: gates that can withstand armoured tanks. Lush dale but no humming bees or bird song too much pesticide for the sake of beauty, what’s left is graveyard peace. I sat on my bike for an hour in the hope of seeing people, but no. Each palace was like an islet cut off from the world outside, here they need no one and no one needs them, splendid isolation Like an asylum of the weary madness. Just as I was to leave a hearse pulled up an iron gate, the gate opened and let, well even rich people must die, prisoners of wealth. I ought to take some of them outside, so they see a bit of real-life before a hearse arrives.