To those who let go

A grey road of dark, directing the drunks down to a pit of articicial light; we're dragged with the flow.
The price is our reason, and the 'idea' more than the effect.
Swallowed by the music of twilight and beyond - brawling infants who can't mind their french. The din of sideways glances and bar stool shuffles, the echo of distorion following three thankless pints, collapsed junkie exhaustion.
Duck and roll through the punches, roll up the sleeves and take aim but no chances, the night has a thousand arms punching and flailing.
Shameless twisted faces smirk at the death of dreams.