Eternal Routine

At night the dead come to the river to drink
They wander mindless, colliding into trees
Relying on instinct
Water's iciness touches their knees
Synchronized, they reach towards water
Cupping their hands to drink
Former sons and daughters
That can no longer think
Eleven months of this mundane routine
Realism has crushed their dreams
Now a cog in a machine
With a recurring theme
Together they look toward the east
They wait, their eyes tear
Stumble back towards the trees
A new dawn near.

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