it’s overload
bodies on streets
posed and doting bones
blazers and trench coats
so overgrown
ambitiously

my only reprieve
a dream of no resistance
a fickle reason for existence
ails muffled at my feet

I twist across the platforms edge
cutting deeper into heat
all the goodness of the stars
are soot and dust I suckle free
into a wrinkled serviette
of where I waste away in service
what did I do so wrong to deserve
such a bitter irony