AT THE END OF THE CITY'S GUTS

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.