Swig.

The jar of a life
Spilled out onto the new rug of society
Feet assiduously adjust to make room for the spill

Speaking, spitting as it spreads
from a tired and chipping mouth
To coat every sole it might reach

There exists a soundtrack
to this grinding of the years
Laced with surety of purpose
Steeped in tea leaves of fate

And we drink it down
Even as we wince
At the bitter whisper left on our tongues
By the things we never got to touch