A hopeless, lone voice utters forgotten words to a face that does not listen.
Stammering sentences pour freely, punctuated by pungent breath of whiskey and ale.
All eyes become affixed to a ghastly silhouette wrapped in soiled linens and unkempt dignity.
The cold counter becomes a temporary stop for old addictions, awaiting their consumption.
The dusty bottle of companionship had been carefully chosen from the lowest shelf, available exclusively to those who can peer no higher.
Down and out, yet reliable.
Time is still as wrinkled currency’s born from shallow pockets.
Onlookers multiply as patience wears thin.
Upper class egos radiate through brand name clothes and purchased pride, looking to hasten their already rushed existence.
The lone voice bids farewell to the face whose ears do not hear, and awaits the bitter sting of a December’s frost on the door’s colder side.
The rust laden jalopy bellows a white haze into a black night, willing to make the final journey despite all impending odds.
The nameless soul boards the chariot but fails to grab the reins.
A deep slumber ensues, while dreams of listening faces lift a fallen spirit.