All Things Decadent

On the rails so fast
     I move through,
     a silent wind felt
     for only one second.

The sun gleams on all
     things and all things
     look brighter that way,
          more smiles that way,
               less crime that way. 

But all things look tired:
     the paint has chipped off,
     the work has taken rest
     and something rotten finds
          it's way under your nails. 

The littered antiques crumble
     into the cracked pavement,
     the rhythm rests over
          big Mac's shoulders. 

     o, i have become
          a water bottle
     left under the sun
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