It grinds. Teeth gnashed, soles worn, brows with as much sweat on them as there are tears below them. Bitter, hopeful, faithful, jaded, and all at once in any bearing heart.
It devours. The choice of bread on the table. The choice of wine in the gutter. What bubbles in the tip of a needle. Babies cry. Car drives by with the stereo blasting. Light hits the rusting barrel on a pistol.
Can’t choose to leave somehow. Can’t see where to go, past the towers. Matters little.
All roads lead back here. All hopes fly, all hopes crash, all hearts beat, all hearts cease to do so.
It feeds. The choice of a head hung low after a double shift and another one waiting in eight hours. The choice of disappearing after the face gets old, skin sags, and that last pipe hit was meant for the morgue.
Every morning lucid, frightened, regrettable, unmentionable, smiling, laughing, wailing silently where no one cares. Each morning, the sun could care less on what it rises upon here. Each time as fleeting as the day before.
Night falls all too quickly here.