All the panes are gray in this smoggy city where dirty rain knocks glasses with tears on weary faces. The muck and grime of a long day's work slurps up our footprints, and when we look behind us, we see no progress. The shoulders that carry our debts and our burdens are tired, and the days are long where the sun hides behind cement walls.
So, we drown our sorrows in fantasy, and we wash our souls with handfuls of quarters. We spritz nature onto our wrists and watch life on a colored box. We play games with air waves and pay space to send us watered-down reality.
We hover together in crowded pubs and argue about the referee's whistle, all the while unaware that someone else is making our calls. We run away for the weekend and think that a salty breeze, clean sheets, and continental breakfast make us free. But our hearts are chained to that chair with wheels that sits ten stories above what we will ever achieve.
Our breath is putrid with the lies we tell our children. I can't listen. Not now. Tomorrow. I promise. Those unheard words that long to fly from soft mouths today will cement lips tomorrow. Instead of the golden stories of our little ones, we will meet a ghostly silence. Nothing burns quite so bright as innocence before it fades in the eyes of a breathing corpse.
So, let's paint our faces. The war mask of the twenty-first century comes in bottles of youth. Let's color on our health and plump our prowess with silicone. Let's filter our image so we can't see what dying animals we are, chained to the grindstone of our choices.
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