every city coughs up its casualties…
human driftwood, men so wrecked
the tide doesn’t even bother
to drag them back out.
they’re not stories,
they’re not tragedies,
they’re just the leftover meat
of bad luck and worse decisions,
hungry in the body,
hollowed-out in the soul,
rotting slow under neon lights
that flicker like a sick joke.
you step over them on your way to somewhere…
anywhere…
pretending it’s not you in a few years
when your last gamble caves in,
when the world finally stops pretending
it gives a damn.
these guys aren’t fallen;
they were pushed.
kicked off the edge
and left to crawl in gutters
stinking of piss, broken promises,
and the echo of things
they should never have believed in.
and the city?
the city just shrugs,
lights another cigarette,
and lets the tide wash
what’s left of them
into the night.
