He never really had a choice, he decided
Sitting on the decaying carpet
Looking at a crumbled ceiling
And looking at the stars through it
He had started a young lad, as all do
As is done to them still,
He had been dealt a hand
A hand only meant for taking
His life was monotonous
A single sentence written over and over
On a muddy parchment
Smeared through the years
His job was to be unseen and nameless
Nodding and yessing for the farce
And whisking away the glasses.
Motions, mundane and thoughtless
And if his calloused hands cleaned
Another broken glass of wine
He paid it no mind,
And none was paid to him.