Slivers of crimson sun pierce through clouds that try but can't hold back a single ray with the illusionary shields of themselves.
some bounce off the oil rainbow puddles by the containers. rust forcing its way through flakes of green paint that
surrenders its grip on the metal with every clank, thud, scrape and unloving move by machine operators and passers by with tool belts and shouldered sharpness.
beaten. broken. filled to the rim with worthlessness. I'm glad I'm not a container.