No hope for me

Moments long gone, spent in a haze, forty years of his life scattered around. Segments he can remember, but most of it he carries. The first time he entered the city, its crowds unfamiliar, he was ready to lose everything for that dream of being at the epicenter of civil life. The shiny outfits, the street lights, though they didn't shine like the outfits did, rays shooting forward, directing his gaze, too much light, eyes ablaze.

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Lambency should have been a tell: these rays of bloom, runes of burning light.

The days of loneliness, or rather, he felt a servant to the city. For its affection, he worked countless hours, gave everything, begged even (though he never thought of it that way, not the street kind, but in its own way). At first, to land a position; then favor became the hunger, inflating with desire that the first position could never fill. The dazzle he wished for, the brilliance he attained, it kept diminishing. The luster he chased, he half-knows now but doesn't quite remember. He remembers little now, although he carries it all.

Nothing gets lost, even his allegiance to the rising, the superiority he once claimed, the authority he declared over others.
Tonnage gathered around the globe, some stored, most spent,
yet it holds. The curvature bends in a direction that negates the eyeful gaze.

So hopeful he never is,