What am I to become?
I held bottles
of promises,
And threw them
At the setting sun.

Watching golden irises,
Melting steel
With their intensity,
But hands refuse
To acknowledge them
As if they were viruses.

What am I to become?
When every yesterday
Is tucked under
An avoided tomorrow,
In a book finished by none.

What am I to do?
When it's three
In the afternoon
But the sky is midnight
Black further distorting
The sullenness of blue.

All the first class passengers,
Safely heading
To their clean slates
In Mars where
It's free from damages.

What am I to become?
A fraction of empathy,
A fraction of passivity,
Intermingling
In one tongue.

What am I to become?
An upgrade?
Where streets collapse,
My roof is still intact
My weather still calm.

So is it hope,
Or absolute dread,
That's setting
The first step
In this unfurling road.