Filthy Routine

So the sun is rising, as I make my way to work,

and the lens of haze makes the road appear filtered

and uniform.

I hate it:

this beauty buried in commonality.

It should be dismal, and hideous.

After-all;

it is the road

that greats every morning

of every day

of this tired retinue

that has become

a routine

on the path to my eventual end.