This place
desolate, bleak,
empty-
skeletons stood upright to
prove
a structural form.
Watching
the paint on the walls grow old,
hearing
thud: heart-beating,
below skin.
Times,
follow the second hand’s tick-
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick,
sound of a knife-
slice.
Ding of the elevator; on a far off floor,
maybe the moon-
these distant lands…
Not for you.
Sit down, not quite at home-
comfortable,
this place is haunted too;
with:
dead memories
dust
and pasts assumed.
The surrounding silence marks the language lacking.
Hunched on rowed stacks,
far towards the back.
-Can’t see.
And you thought you were the only one
Sit and think until punch clock strikes: done.
