black.

Long, underground
tunnels to nowhere
to daydreams
to nightmares.
Followed around by men
wearing ill-fitted suits singing
ill-timed tunes no one's
listened to, seriously, before.
Violins chasing pathways
eating holes exactly the size of
mothballs, through pillows
that litter the ground,
underneath,
remnants of the night before.
A pillow fight.
A brick.
and red tints the floor.
Treading through the mess,
these neverending pathways
in their mouldy green
distress
cry out suddenly from
somewhere one must assume
is deep inside their cracked
cores
grown weary with the
weight of hopes and dreams
and unfinished masturbation
that is the public transit
system
powerless to help the victims,
the unanswered, under-
appreciated, forgotten, straight
shot -
where caving roofs are just something
else to get used to,
figures stepping in and out
of oblivion,
some choosing never to resurface
again.
It is in these cracks, in these
broken, water-filled,
feathered, seaweed-drowned
areas of longing
that my pace quickens,
paying attention to something,
anything besides the call of
the violins
beckoning, promising to keep me
away from the sun
for good.