Empty cups and cigarettes,
Smoke drifting out the door.
Beer dripping off the table,
Ash scattered on the floor.
Music playing in the distance.
People laughing on the road.
Talking about nothing at all,
Their faces cast in shadow.
Another slumped building
In a dull and grey city.
It is where we all survive,
Drowning in our self-pity.
Another swig of alcohol,
To mask the bitter taste
Of a life that's passing by,
And fading into waste.
The sun is falling lower.
The light pierces the room,
And chases away the remnants
Of overwhelming gloom.
So we pick up our glasses.
In a half-salute we raise it.
"To the lives we're living!" we cry,
But there's no one there to hear it.
And when the dark settles again,
We drop back in our seats.
Our spines are curving forward -
We're the epitome of defeat.
Maybe someday we'll look up,
And a new life we shall seek.
But for now we smoke our cigarettes,
And smell their smoky reek.
YOU ARE READING
the mind's recesses
Poetrywords that fell out of inky fingers, and stained the paper that lay on wooden tables.
