worn down

In the morning I rise, rub my eyes, and rewind Through the tangled-up threads of the dreams in my mind, like The grey morning mist that descends and defines The blurred edges of truth with the passing of time, like The kettle clicks on, and the milk's running low Lost keys, loose change, just the usual show Another cracked screen, another bill to bestow Watch the pigeons peck crumbs in the concrete below As the day starts to grow