It was there in the brick walls. Cement, glass, asphalt, and all the heat to bake bread in the open.
It was there under cloud cover. It was there in the melting of chilled wind and Winter’s last gasp.
It could lay as shiny as brass, but it would lack even that luster. All wine is lorn upon the tongue.
No sweetness. No light.
No parade upon the promenade, no pomp and circumstance.
The grey pall lifted in the toll of a five o’clock bell. Where solemn day fades and bacchanalian night begins.
Such revelry. Such noise. Such silent and empty street one would think parade. Beads lay sitting, hands left still.
Only madness can suffer here. Only the promise of stuffy, stale air to meet flesh and dreams alike.
Sleep is no escape. The morning like every one before. Reverie is 0755.
Grinding, turning, all wheels spark, and yield sharp edges, and the steel will be left unburied here, for no hatchet shall touch soil. No hammer cocked, no trigger squeezed. Simply a blade in the dark, and a back turned one final time.
All roads lead here, none seem to leave. The fastest car stays present, never so fleet as to flee far enough away. No fist, no wallet, no whimper in the wind to beg for quarter.
All here except their fate. All know it’s still a bottle and everyone but a piece of ship.
Never to set sail in the tide. Never to be more than a display.