Burnt the last time,
throw out every chance to return.
Reborn, under the guise of dead skin,
Better to return again
known to the world,
as the last exile
Digested and spit out.
Look at what we’ve become.
All the things I’ve done.
You thought we’d come around,
the passing traffic pays no mind
to the hum; streets and pavements
grounded over a lifetime of small favors,
repairs and traction for us to run each other>>>>>
out of our lives.
Who knew this place was sarcophagus-like
and stripped of imagination?
Pulled the vehicle in slowly and let the engine run,
no daylight exhumed and the garage door shut.
I manage to escape the fumes
because nothing can exist in the dark,
smothered by exhaust
deterred by retaliation.