You wake in a cold sweat,
Alone with the grip of your past.
Your vision is blurred by tiny needles,
A lonely street lamp shines its light heedless.

The twisting noise of the city piercing your ear,
Interrupting the brief rest you hold so dear.
This respite they pushed away now punctuated by a sharp horn.
Thousand voices and a thousand footsteps, a glaring shopwindow of scorn.

As you look past the glamour of the city,
You see a thousand tiny souls flickering for amity.
Hiding behind hardened stares, and holstered gunfire,
Expensive high-life and luxurious privilege.

If this is what it means to make it, so be it.
A line to stop at and take a step back.
Fighting for something that is so grossly transparent,
Means to an end, something that has no merit.
The shadows give you comfort, a freedom you'll never forget.