My Bastille

I try hard to hold my past still

But it’s leaking putrid pastels.

Is there a point to hold on

To this forgotten echelon?

My legs keep being restless,

I can even taste the stress.

Is it my wishful thinking

Or can I sleep while blinking?

Or maybe we just pretend

That burning out is not a trend?

I try to tie the blasts in twill,

They try to forge my last will.

And I wonder – how come

I must always please the scum?

They never have to fix the stencil

If we agree to stand still.

But my feet keep running cold

While they trade our heat for gold.

So I spit out the foul pastil

And let my ego storm the Bastille.