Day in. Day out. Day in. Day out.
Same cigarette to the lips. Same time. Same place.
A human clock for the work week.
All converge here for some reason, one would venture to guess.
Reasonably, paths cross. Path can run parallel but these haven’t.
Strength has been stolen from what’s been decided.
On paper, other worries were left out of this fight.
Devotion and hunger ravage gifts. Loyalty stalls.
Blessings waste away as stimulation disappears.
In the swamp. In the sand. Sinking. Lost.
A wall will never be a sanctuary.
But smoke may be a refuge.
Some sense to be made in consuming.