Passing the Secondhand

I'm leaving,
this cursed town.

With it promises,
of pop idols,
progress,
and good.

I am tired,
of its greyscale,
worn intentions.

The broken clocks,
that never give time,
or grace.
to its wound up tribes.

A Red Bull state.
Fed on mediocrity,
and sunny delight.

I can't believe it not butter.

You better.

Because some day, all watches,
will be made this way.