the clock speaks louder than souls do
lost between cocktails and leaky pipes
we stagger into jobs, clutching hours
chasing a fading piece of bread.
the wise-man\'s corner sits empty now—
he moved when we plastered neon signs
and began looking for God in mirrors
where only smudges and ghosts reply.
what fools demand is always out there,
a gleaming horizon to nowhere special,
but the wise know: death sits quietly,
smoking cigarettes, watching the show.
the unexamined life, they’ll tell you,
is cheap rent in an endless eviction
and each day we pay with silence,
pretending the cracks don\'t exist.