Faithless

He's already drunk 

On the morning commute 

 

She's higher than the clouds 

It's not lunchtime yet 

 

We turn our noses up 

We tolerate

On our way to work 

 

But they're still here 

They still pay their rent

We still charge them extra for guac 

 

New York is no place to judge 

It's fair game 

 

A blood bath of survival 

A faithless town of refugees 

 

We need hope in something 

But can't look past people 

 

The buildings cover the skies 

Even the parks can't maintain isolation 

 

It's sad 

 

They don't see a future 

Except promotions and studios 

 

New restaurants and parties 

Are momentary distractions 

From the mouse hiding under the sink 

PoetryLily MoeComment