We forget…we always do.
The love we held, the friends we loved, the pleasures we sought. We forget and we become..
We become them. Them out there…toiling and laboring for a peasant’s piece. How low how low we’ve come. We ran and sped…through streets past lights…for this…
A story, we are now. A tale often heard. Of a worker and a parent, and a slab in the morgue