Glass Castles or Sunday Suits...

She has a castle in the glass,
I see it almost five days a week.
There’s no one carries a free pass,
you’ve got to graft to have a peak.

The streets of gold are on the turn,
this all we hear from May’s sad crew.
They surround the alchemist urn,
conjuring an unsustainable brew.

There’s a man with apples on his coat,
another with a short sharp beard.
One man adorned the Masonic goat,
another looked quite unprepared.

Just to look at their tired faces,
knowing they look back at mines.
We’re all going to separate places,
but for a few the sun never shines.

We don’t choose or own our route,
so roundly touted in fabled stories.
Most never get to wear a Sunday suit,
worn down by unfulfilling glories.

Then appears a heckled protestor,
who will never accept their status quo.
As he quietly challenges said professor,
others stand upon the sad line they toe.

And so our chosen paths do cross,
knowing not each others destination.
To tired to understand it is our loss,
that we don’t travel in affirmation.

In the carriage some kick of the day,
reading news so expertly unprepared.
Caring not what they should do or say,
believing in temerity equally shared.