The 5 a.m. sun
rises over the eastern skyscape,
unveiling the leafless tress
and the empty rice fields.

An elderly man,
wears a solemn expression
reminiscent of his turbulent youth
as he works next to you
in the endless rows of green.
His clothes are made
from the same burlap sacks
that carried his monthly rations of grain.
The same ones that will hold your corpse
when it is dumped into neglect.

You answer his pity with your ignorance
because you don’t know any better
than to curl up in red curtains on wintry nights
to watch everyday of your life
replay itself like a cassette on repeat,
to run away from your troubles,
only to find yourself sinking
into your old footprints.

So you wake every morning,
to the same 5 a.m. sun,
under the same blackroom sky
to find yourself
digesting their lies,
those pills of truth
disguised
for your comfort.