PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Shimmering on a checker floor

the lights move rhythmically

before turning to pulse 

and faces that were matte black 

pan into focus,

Pupils widen 

and mouths loosen 

followed by morals 

belts 

and buttons,

The audio visual parade 

of sense lost to movement

so Miranda poses a question: 

"Why do I smell gasoline?"

The doors are locked 

and no one can notice

that the floors are soaked

and the unknowing is now noted,

I scramble for barred windows

that won't budge 

and the fire exits 

are all welded shut, 

This place is a tomb 

and the cadavers still drink 

and rub rythmically in time 

with a great tune to die to. 

I'd warn them 

if the music wasn't pulsing 

I shout and jump 

but they think I'm just a strung out junky

and offer me chill pills

to parachute into my guts

The sound drops silent 

and the air becomes thick 

before I hear a clicking 

and a fire knocks at the door

so now in slow motion 

I see skin seperate from bone

and the young faces melt 

while still raving to chillwave,

Their skeletal systems 

still dancing 

Their noses still vacuum 

the air in the room 

I feel like searching my soul

to be stuck here,

The night out on the town painted 

in what could only be hell,

Poor bastards party together

because the latter can be boring