Searching for outlines, through a thick haze
of smoke, and shadows
of soot, and smog.

Breathing in such vile odors,
which mask the locations of lines and confines.
Too weak to be breaking down doors.
Too tall to be down on the floors.

Dusty and *****, still haven't reached thirty.
Climbing high, moving on.
Pushing on from dusk through dawn.
Still unsure why I move on.