God never blessed the working class.
Broken men breaking bones to break even. They live in homes on stilts. Teetering and swaying, as stable as the modern day wage. They drag their swollen feet to their bedside. Laying next to a shell of a spouse or the ghost that loved them too much to leave. A domestic burial plot. Clasped hands resting on a heavy chest, cue the last breath.
Pray for death or pray for a paycheck.
I could bullshit my way into heaven ‘cause hell was fed up with mine.
I was living life in my head until my eyes lit up. They took many forms between blinks, a cascade of actions to reactions. Standing still, upright with my hands to my side, they acted out my scenes. Portraying scenarios out of reach, majestic endings to tug at heart strings. Give them love or give them blood. Show them all that they wish they could be. When curtain call comes, they will sink with the stage.
A standing ovation for the last man standing, but I was the lead role in my own silent film. Up to my knees in silhouettes, my ears still ringing from the applause.
They all flock to the sound of the next big thing.
End Scene.
