Warehouse.

I.

You are an escaped soul,
masks have been searching for you
when New Jersey bore its'
burdens to one AM
gun shots;
the city does not deny crime,
the lovers do
as they create fire in bolted
rooms between ashen sheets.

II.

You think and think that
there could be a last day
waiting for you, and then,
a street's dead end.
Why not?

And screaming from your
own lungs gives life to eyes
as your feet are no longer
drowsy.

You sprint ahead,
raising your arms like
an anthem.

Shapeless, an attempt
to be better explained;
amber eyes and fragrances
that were your sight,
your propellent.
Elle, Elle, she is not with you.
Love was not a mastermind,
you were,

are.

III.

The warehouse light
pulses as you place your
soul on the floor, walk ahead,
wake up,

knowing yourself for just
a minute more while you
comply with the warriors

who surround this quiet
city.

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Written 10/04/13 @ 1:10 AM