The traffic fades as the sun settles down
And brings an end to this prosaic day;
The weary masses will remain downtown,
The sky begins to dim a moody gray.

Each morning the alarm resets itself;
With open eyes as stagnant as the dew,
They took their breakfast food down from the shelf
Ignoring the stale taste when they would chew.

Next their feet would drag them to the street
So they could travel, choking on exhaust;
They knew each task that they had to complete,
But somehow, on the way, they would feel lost.

Each day’s design: to help them to survive,
But surviving each day became a test;
Each test of mettle runs from nine to five
With breaks for lunch, but just a moment’s rest,

But then their thoughts would wander back to home
And thus their thoughts stayed fixed on smaller goals:
To lunch, to Wednesday, to this chance to roam,
To any break from having no control.

Each evening they’d revel in simple joys,
Did city sounds bring calm upon their nerves?
Did loneliness stay hidden in the noise?
This famine, left ignored, remained preserved.

They’d each, in turn, express formalities;
The words with which one does not say a thing.
Such friendships last not in reality,
But that’s okay, they mute a lonesome sting.

Each night presents foundation for the days,
So off to bed to rest and clear the head;
This sleep undid a painful conscious daze
As static bodies imitate the dead.

And so the cycle runs without a break,
Each hour wounding them until the last,
The last one marks the morning they don’t wake,
And all that was, at last, will come to pass.

And though there is no fear left in the dead
They drew a will to see their wishes done;
A service, guaranteeing tears are shed,
A burial that’s not to be outdone.

They must be sure, before the great abyss,
That no one left behind could just forget
That once there lived a person such as this,
But in the mind, they’re just a silhouette.

In this deaf ear, no breath of air is heard.
They whisper his possessions were his life;
He had no qualms, this was what he preferred:
“These things will never leave me like my wife!”

In these blind eyes, no malice can be seen,
Her sister moved in with the man she loved;
You’ll never know if she’d think this obscene
Since she resides below, and they above.

Such selfish deeds are easy to excuse
Since we have each been taught to tend ourselves;
This field of buried dead will stand accused,
Each sacrifice made only for themselves.

It’s wrong to cast the blame across this field,
For we each share the burden of our tasks.
This gated meadow leaves the guilt concealed,
But guilt within the city has no mask.

The sun stays fixed behind the murky clouds,
Its hazy glow the only source of light.
The city masses line the street in crowds,
Their brittle, stoic bodies bleaching white.

These stale and skinny bodies lost their weight,
Along with every life sustaining breath
That gave them endless vigor for debate
On subjects that were sure to hasten death.

Each morning, day, and night these corpses lie
Awaiting burials they’ll never get;
This ritual was used to say goodbye,
But there are none alive to be upset.

The wind pulls dusty skin through boney holes,
A whistle carries through the empty space;
A simple breeze or simple weeping souls
Eroded, carried off without trace?

The buildings weakly lean against the sky
Each showy structure standing out alone,
But why must these gray eyesores stand so high?
So this mass grave will not remain unknown!

At night, no beacon gives the city light,
The moon and stars choked by the atmosphere,
The darkest black oppresses every night;
When nothing can be seen, life disappears.

Perhaps as day and night, autumn and spring,
A new life will emerge after this rest?
Though history was written with this ring,
The sound of truth always remains the best.

No one thing could have made this come to pass;
For all that is known of that simple earth
The secrets of everything else stay masked.
To this great unknown, earth has little worth.

If any soul remained, they’d wonder how
These silhouettes were unified to fall;
The explanation doesn’t matter now,
Some things happen for no reason at all.

Epitaph

The fear of placement in a silent lot
Binds each man to another when unnerved;
This best prepares them for life’s simple plot:
Chase what you want and get what you deserve.

Perhaps they wonder if there was a point,
Asking ‘what is life?’ and if there’s a cause;
An answer, though, would likely disappoint,
Each person must conclude their own ‘because.’

One counter to this point may be ‘It is.’
For there is not that much to comprehend;
Just love each fleeting moment as it is,
Don’t waste a single day to mourn the end.