The beautiful

I once asked a

friend

“When do you know

you’ve achieved the Dream?”

He craned his head,

golden eyes meeting mine.

His lip curled, oil seeped

through red-stained teeth.

Crooked smile,

he replied

“These streets of gold are plated

the traveller will find.

But, when money makes you money,

you make a friend of time.

A man will know he’s reached the peak

when he can stand and say

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

my works, ye mighty, will stay.’”

I saw him then

fall back into row

black suited men upon men

and I recoiled.

the Dream

is dead.