At the end of the city\'s guts
where asphalt chokes on river brine
friends huddle in a bar
that smells like yesterday\'s regrets.
The neon flickers tired and worn
casting shadows on their faces
etched with lines of laughter and sorrow
every drink a toast to what once was.
The bartender knows their names
their stories their lies
pours another round of solace
in chipped glasses cheap and strong.
The jukebox plays a mournful tune
a soundtrack to their shared defeat
but there\'s comfort in the company
in slurred confessions and drunken truths.
They talk of dreams long buried
lovers lost chances missed
the weight of what-ifs heavy
on their shoulders dragging them down.
But for a moment in the haze
they find a spark of something real
a connection forged in the ruins
of broken promises and faded hopes.
The night wears on relentless
the outside world a blur
but inside they cling to each other
finding strength in their collective fall.
The dawn breaks with weary light
casting long shadows on their retreat
the city awakening indifferent
to the lives spent in its grip.
They rise slow and deliberate
shuffling back to their routines
each step a testament
to resilience forged in fire.
The memories linger like smoke
in the quiet corners of their minds
but they march on stoic
holding onto the fragments of solace.
In the stillness of their hearts
compassion weaves its thread
bright and pure a silent strength
binding them through the years.
Old men battered by the grind
yet unbroken unbowed
they carry on with quiet dignity
in a world that often forgets.
And the game continues
the bar remains a sanctuary
a place where time slows just enough
for old men to find themselves
and each other once again.