This city (will be the death of me).
A brisk walk into oncoming traffic
A great way of quelling the panic
Of hopelessness; burdened by bills,
Browsing for sad thrills; alone, bored,
Ignored emails from abhorred editors;
(Better luck next time I guess?!)
Twenty nine years in this acrid belly,
Flailing, failing, nothing to show,
Except debts, regrets, a mind off-kilter,
Eyes strained through filtered grey veils
Of opulence, greed and brash inequality,
For anything remotely satisfactory:
This city will be the death of me.