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.