Here I am again,
Gazing out the window of my prison cell,
Whose walls are made out of cheap cigarettes,
And expired food.

I stare blankly at the world outside this room,
A derelict wasteland,
Comprised of skeleton trees,
Reaching out into a smog-choked sky.
Beneath it lie,
Crumbling homes, of those,
Who are all but walking dead.

And a road,
Where people drive to and fro,
Always too fast, eager to go
To the place they need to be
And to put this one
Far behind them.

And so I look back
At my rotting abode,
Just another place
Which has fallen to dilapidation and waste
In this peculiar little hamlet
Of decadence and disease.

This place,
Which is not quite hell,
But rather a sort of purgatory,
A place outside of time,
Matter outside of space,
A waiting place.

And those who find themselves,
Within this cold and empty,
Fluorescent lit limbo
Can only wait and pray,
For life to find them,
For death to take them,
For something, anything,
Other than this.

And so I stand here,
Decaying,
Like everything else in this place,
With that same empty smile
Plastered across my face.

And I swallow another pill,
Wait for it to take hold,
And deliver me
Into that hour or so
Of sweet, euphoric oblivion,
When I can’t feel this place sucking the life out of me.

 
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