8-baller was laying there,
the parking lot became a funeral parlor
his Mother not invited, as patrolmen quietly recorded
the names of those responsible for such irresponsibility

I slid past holding the history of Room 218
clothes soiled with profit
and spent casings hidden in soap boxes
all the horror and dirt draining from my eyes
with a smile for the clerk and a twenty dollar bill of prayer
that my face would not be recalled
I kept walking
unaware of how long the stories would become
or the frozen moments my soul bared

movement was imperative

for years I begged
for an end to the steel mirages of reality
for the wind to cease blowing the ashes

no longer do I ask it to stop
I know better

the tears of darkness are incapable of hearing