A means to an end

I am the tiny cog in a war machine covered in the oil and filth of the mundane and the unseen.

I am that piece of dust I tell myself, as I fall idly to the floor.
Obsolete, ignored and lets not forget expendable.
That yet in secret I’m so much more.

A man in a rat race, running and now admitting looking for the checked flag when the white of surrender is much more fitting.

Hope comes and goes like so many missed sun rise and sun sets. I apply myself to a better world and grudgingly open the rejects the sorry’s the apologies and the (we regrets).  

Then when I know my years have been wasted from trying to better myself improve and ascend. Hope whispers sweetly through old photographs and reminds me
It’s just a means to an end.